


The Pressure of Days

by KatzoutoftheBag



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatzoutoftheBag/pseuds/KatzoutoftheBag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham, confused and frustrated after his kiss with Alana Bloom, realizes how few people he can trust with his deepest feelings, and just how isolated he really is. During a blackout, he finds his way to the house of someone he never would have expected to turn to: Dr. Frederick Chilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For someone with an exceptional ability to understand the emotions and motivations of others, Will Graham found his own mind at times to be an almost insurmountable summit, littered with the crumpled, half-filled pages of uncomfortable social interactions. Cues missed just enough to draw the wrong kind of attention. Would-be silences breached by uncomfortable observations, words leaving his lips as his mind, just too late, observed that _that may not be the right thing to say._ Each time, like a frustrated author tearing paper from a typewriter, Will added another piece to the discard pile, another bit of evidence to highlight his missteps.

If he really wanted, Will could overanalyze his difference, look deeply into the face of his own condition and strip away the layers of well-trained defences to glimpse with empathy his own self, but in truth it was almost more uncomfortable to turn the mirror inward than it was to enter the minds of the depraved and the cruel. Depravity, he could handle. It wore many masks, but always concealed the same face. At bare bones, the worst parts of humanity were simple. They made sense. What had happened with Alana, and the reflection he'd seen in her – that terrified him.

It wasn't that Will had been surprised by the kiss, or that he hadn't thought about it many times before; he had imagined the warm give of Alana's lips, permissive and eager against his own, many times. And it had been nearly as he had predicted it would be: brief, but not curt; intense, but somehow reserved. Relieving and frustrating in the same motion. It had left him wanting more, and the electric sensation her lips had left on his had encouraged him forward. He would have kept on, no doubt, if he had felt the same push from Alana he felt within himself. As it had played out, however, she had turned her cheek, and he had retreated once more. The adolescent self-consciousness that so often accompanies a long-awaited kiss had reared its head almost instantly, and he could have dealt with that, if that was all it was. But to see himself through Alana's eyes, to understand the reasons she couldn't ever allow herself to be with him, to viscerally _feel_ her well-intended withdrawal, that was the agonizing part.

Will knew he wasn't a prime candidate for most women. He wasn't oblivious to his handsome features, but knew also that to the women who were attracted to him, those features acted as a smokescreen, concealing the future ex-partner they were lucky to avoid. He knew he wasn't the worst potential partner in the world, either, but knew enough to expect that his keen ability to alienate without intention would only end his future relationships as it had ended his past ones: poorly. In a way, he was relieved Alana had drawn away. He was happy to spare her the discomfort of an intimate relationship with himself, as much as he regretted missing the opportunity to grow closer to her. They would remain friends, though, and hopefully the water under their bridge would change steadily and quickly.

The modest house in Wolf Trap rarely saw guests, and its open rooms mourned Alana's departure. The house was far from empty, with numerous dogs making beds out of any and all upholstered surfaces, but in the wake of Will and Alana's brief interaction, it seemed to echo like a new home, bare of personal effects. Will sat near his fogged front window, the hum of radiators and the distant ticking of a clock buzzing loudly in his mind. The stillness snaked beneath his skin, crept up the back of his neck, set his entire body on edge. If the weather had been better, he might have taken the dogs for a run. If he had been six whiskeys in instead of five, a late evening jog through a snowstorm might have seemed like a good idea.

A solitary life often suited Will, minimizing the discomforts his own personality seemed adept at fostering, but on nights like this, his loneliness stung like lemon juice on a paper cut. He wanted to talk – actually, genuinely wanted to talk – but couldn't think of a single person who might want to hear his jumbled thoughts. To call on a colleague would be inappropriate on every level, and he certainly couldn't talk to Alana, unless he wanted to reinforce just how bad an idea it was for her to get close to him. He had already sung this tune for Hannibal Lecter, who was not even paid to listen to Will ruminate aloud and to lament his own perceived failings. He racked his brain, mostly for curiosity's sake, compiling a very short list of those he could call acquaintances, and his loneliness sighed in the dusty corners of the living room.

Frederick Chilton was a name that came to him and surprised him, as they could hardly be called acquaintances, and certainly not friends. They had only recently met, and had very little history beyond brief, professional interactions. Still, it wasn't entirely uncommon for Chilton to enter Will's mind; he had found himself playing host to unbidden thoughts about the man now and then, his interest strangely piqued by the pompous and self-aggrandizing psychiatrist. It wasn't those traits he found interesting; rather, he found them quite off-putting. Instead, Will was painfully aware of the desperate need Chilton had to be always held in higher esteem, always more prized than his colleagues, as much as he never quite reached those lofty goals. Will could see it written all over Chilton's impeccably styled office and his carefully tailored physical appearance. The man had built an impressive façade to hide the mildly disappointing interior, and he made sure – or, at least, it was his intent – to never allow anyone a look inside. That was it, the lure that had snagged Will. He was interested in the humanity of a man who did his best to conceal it. There was a reluctant familiarity Will felt when he looked through Chilton's eyes. He found it difficult to forget.

It had been clear to Will when he met Chilton that the man had felt a strong attraction to him. It was physical at first, Will identified immediately, but the attraction was multi-layered and grew deep as Chilton realized this was The Will Graham, the spectacle, the psychological oddity so many were eager to pull at like the petals of an artichoke. The entire meeting had been an exercise in patience for Will - Chilton hadn't bothered to hide his interest while still in Will's presence, and the near-giddiness with which he outwardly imagined taking a psychiatrist's journey through the corners of the other man's mind had almost set Will off. He had been annoyed, even angered, by Chilton's approach. After his years at the academy and more recently during his work with Jack Crawford, he had grown incredibly tired of the psychiatrist's eye turning to centre on his mind, trying to uncover secrets and reveal commodifiable histories. It had taken a measure of self-control for Will to hold in his _Fuck off_ and remain seated in the handsome but uncomfortable tufted chair across from the doctor.

Their later interactions hadn't been much different, though perhaps slightly less formal, and although Chilton remained faithfully brazen, there seemed to develop a shade of respect that coloured his manner. Will wondered if it was another form of posturing Chilton had adopted, a way of making himself seem less reprehensible to a man he wanted to impress. Will smirked despite himself at the idea that anyone would want to impress him, let alone a peacock like Frederick Chilton.

With a measure of resignation, Will found himself again fixating on this man, ruminating on the interest he could understand, as much as it irked him. He understood in the way he could any person whose point of view he chose to adopt, but there was something more, always something additional humming in the background. He wondered if Chilton's interest in him, when boiled down, was the very same as Will's interest in Chilton – the uncomfortable familiarity the men shared. Beyond that, he of course recognized the physical interest, saw the unmistakeable evidence of it in Chilton's expressions and glances. It radiated from the man, the sort of wordless liaison that gives a hopeful nudge and lets you know, quietly, that it's safe to proceed. It encouraged Will to respond in kind, persistent but quiet, and terribly cautious. Will had shut it out of his mind.

For the most part, the outward simplicity of his sexuality was something Will took for granted. He had had sex only with women, his relationships ranging from single enjoyable nights to rare, uniquely challenging stretches, though nothing that could ever be called long-term. It was women who caught his eye in public, who crossed his mind and lingered there on lonely nights when his only company was himself and his only relief the touch of his own hands. But, now and then, with the right amount of liquor lowering his inhibitions and quieting the terrified parts of his mind, it was another man whose pull was palpable, whose electric energy encouraged impulses in Will that he normally suppressed for fear of what they could mean. With those parts of his mind quelled by drunkenness, he had fumbled in the dark with a handful of men, kissed them, felt the burn of their stubbly chins against his own. He had felt the familiar firmness of an erection that wasn't his own, through well-worn denim. He remembered these experiences as a person remembers a dream, briefly vivid and exciting, before dulling and fading into the corners of the mind, losing lucidity the more time passed and he began to question whether they'd been real at all. But he did remember them, however buried the experiences might have been, and they seemed to return to life in brilliant colour and shape as he thought about Frederick Chilton. It made him nervous.

It was absurd, really, that he should be sitting in his living room during a snowstorm, considering the implications of a man like Chilton finding him attractive, and replaying the times in his life that he had been on the other side of that dynamic. Not that Chilton wasn't attractive, he thought with an uncomfortable sinking in his stomach. He was an oddly handsome man, with soft, kneaded-clay features and eyes that were gentle when they weren't focused like a vulture's on prey. The doctor would be proud, Will thought, to know that the care and attention Chilton put into his physical presentation had worked at least somewhat in impressing someone he had an interest in.

Will shook his head at his own foolishness and poured another glass, drinking it too quickly for a man who could tell even while sitting that he had had too much. This had been enough of a trip down memory lane for one evening. He didn't care to consider what it meant that the confusing memories he shared with no one now intersected fully with his interactions with Chilton. He wished immediately that he could divorce the two as he felt the pervasive fingers of this realization burrowing aggressively into his mind. And, he thought with mild amusement, it had all come from working through his concerns about Alana. No, Frederick Chilton was absolutely not the friend Will would or should speak to about the tumult in the wake of that kiss, and Frederick Chilton was absolutely not who Will should focus any of his confusion or attention on. He capped the whisky bottle on the window ledge and gripped the arms of his chair. _Change of scenery, then,_ he thought, standing up and wobbling dangerously before finding some balance. The heads of several of his pets raised, watching him with curiosity as he waited for the sloshing in his own head to calm.

\---

Panic flooded Will as he snapped into consciousness, freezing cold and trembling violently in his Volvo. Disoriented, heart racing, he frantically tried to obtain a grasp on his surroundings. He was in his car, the windows rolled down and the engine running. The off-balance sensation he'd initially attributed to his drunkenness was only exacerbated by the fact that his car, half-wedged in a snowbank, leaned down into the snow on the passenger's side. Looking into his snow-dusted lap, he saw a damp business card.

Will closed the car's windows quickly and turned on the heat, which came on immediately but did little to shake the chill he felt all through him. With a shaking hand, he raised the business card closer to his face and squinted, instantly recognizing the card and recalling where he'd taken it from. In a neat dish on his desk, as though he were the self-important manager of a retail outlet, Frederick Chilton had kept a tidy stack of business cards – not enough to look as though no one had ever taken one, and not too few to look as though he couldn't afford to keep the dish stocked. Perfectly considered and laid out as every other part of his office. Will had taken one silently as he had left the office, and had stuffed it in his pocket without drawing attention. He hadn't been sure why. Seeing the card now in his car after yet another instance of lost time and sleepwalking – or sleep-driving – sent a fresh wave of panic through Will. He knew where he was, now, even if he had no recollection of the journey, or why he would ever have made it. He raised his eyes, squinting up the long drive whose snowbank he'd unintentionally parked in, and watched, filled with anxiety and confusion, as a patio light flicked on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's arrival at Dr. Chilton's house is shrouded in confusion and tension. The revelations they unintentionally share with one another set up a house of cards on a teetering table.

Dr. Frederick Chilton sat on his stylish sofa in his needlessly large living room, watching television with only mild interest. The unfinished ends of a thrown-together dinner sat, long cooled, on a TV tray that felt out of place in such an ostentatious space. Pot lights created pools of illumination in a carefully organized pattern across the floor, and in bold competition, the cold flicker of the television cast odd shadows and highlights across the man's face. He had no investment in the program airing, but rather let the television fill the empty room with canned laughter and lighthearted voices. It offered some form of company to a man whose spacious home rarely knew the presence of visitors.

It had been another long and tedious day, brimming with frustrations stemming from the lack of cooperation shown to him by so many of his patients. His job would be easy, he often thought, if any of them would just shut up and work with him. Instead, he too often fought an uphill battle against a sea of disturbed madmen who laughed openly at the well-dressed poseur in the big chair at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was easier, if only slightly, with new patients. Chilton was not so well known that anyone outside of a very small psychiatric circle might know his name, or his reputation – though he liked to believe that the opposite was true – and so to patients who had never heard the open jeers or seen the shows of disrespect that he seemed to command, he might have seemed imposing. His undeniable intelligence might have intimidated. But it never took long for new patients to catch on to the long running game, and often after a while, Chilton again found himself in the middle of open season, babysitting yet another foul-mouthed lunatic who knew too much for his liking. He was grateful that another day of it was nearly over, and was eager to ease out of it in some form of comfort.

With a heaving sigh, Chilton pulled himself to his feet, clearing the dishes off the tray and bringing them into the kitchen to offload onto his pristine white countertops. He poured himself a generous glass of thirteen-year-old Châteauneuf du Pape, retrieved from his very purposefully stocked wine rack, and headed back into the living room. As he did many nights, he would relax to the sounds of a sitcom which never drew so much as a smile from his face, or perhaps he would unfocus his mind against the background noise of an evening newscaster's impartial voice. His options were endless, and every one stung with a shred of loneliness. He thought briefly about trading in his quiet evening for some company, the enjoyment of conversation over a wine Chilton knew was shamefully wasted on a single person. It was unusual for Chilton to ever entertain guests – though every detail of his home was laid out precisely with the intention of impressing – but even still, for a moment, the thought of inviting company appealed to him. It wasn't even very late, he realized; 9 PM surely wasn't too late to entertain. But who would he call? Out of the extensively long list of contacts in his digital address book, only a few had ever been to his home outside of a work-related gathering. To add to his second-guessing, he considered whether he himself would respond positively to a short-notice invitation to the home of a colleague on a weeknight. Chilton laughed under his breath. He wouldn't, not even if he felt as restless as he did now, if only to save face. Who worth spending time with was available at the drop of a hat?

Resigned to the inevitability of his solitary evening, Chilton took a sip of the distinctive wine and turned his gaze to the sofa. Before he could return to his seat, the cushion indented precisely where he liked it to be, a set of headlights turned toward his house and shone invasive and bright through large, uncovered windows, drawing Chilton out of his thoughts.

_What the hell?_

After all his musing about guests, and the unlikeliness of them, it was almost impossible to imagine that someone – anyone – might stop by unannounced. _Must be turning around in the drive,_ he concluded, standing still in front of the window, observing the car with curiosity. He continued to watch as the vehicle seemed to lose control, skidding in the accumulating snow and ice, before coming to a nerve-wracking stop, sliding into a shallow gutter obscured by a growing snow drift. It was obvious the driver had become stuck; the wheels spun fruitlessly before stopping altogether, and the stillness following the nerve-wracking slide confused Chilton even more. He waited, but no one exited the car.

Squinting, Chilton tried to make out a familiar vehicle, but the brightness of the car's headlights obscured any telling details. With another sigh, he set down his glass, striding to the door and pulling on his coat. _I'd better make sure they're okay,_ he thought, mildly resentful that he was now responsible for helping whoever it was out of his driveway. With a pair of weather-inappropriate shoes on his feet, Chilton turned on the patio light and opened his door, heading out into the frigid evening air.

The car didn't become any more recognizable as he neared it. The driver, whose silhouette he could now make out beyond the car's headlights, stirred inside.

"Are you alright?" Chilton asked, his voice insulated and dulled by the blanket of fresh snow. He squinted against still-falling flakes.

"Listen," he went on, digging his phone out of his pants pocket. "I'm gonna call you a tow truck – "

Chilton's voice caught in his throat as he reached the driver's side of the car. Peering through the frosted glass, he saw none other than Will Graham looking back at him, shaking and damp. If he had been confused before, he was baffled now.

"Will Graham?" he asked, oddly formal, his puzzlement turning swiftly to concern. "Are you all right?"

Will remained silent for a moment, looking back at Chilton, before reaching his shaking hand to shut off the car's engine. The silence in the absence of the engine's steady rumble felt like pressure forcing inward in Chilton's head; his mind spun at the unexpected arrival of Will Graham at his home. His curiosity burned. He stepped back as Will opened the car door and climbed precariously out of the vehicle. The smell of alcohol, consumed and sweated back out, hit Chilton as Will stumbled, steadying himself on the other man's shoulder. Reflexively, Chilton braced Will, arms held away from his body, close enough to catch him if he tripped again.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Chilton," Will managed to utter, his jaw vibrating along with the rest of his body. The fresh exposure to the cold evening air chilled his sweat and wicked what little warmth he'd regained after he'd closed the car's windows. "I have grit in my trunk."

In other circumstances, Chilton might have laughed at the idea of a drunken man, shaking like a leaf, trying to maneuver a car out of a snowbank. The situation being what it was, he could only frown. It was clear something was wrong, beyond Will being drunk and turning up unannounced at his home. He was scared, disoriented. His eye contact was worse than it normally was, and as Chilton had realized early on with some disappointment, his eye contact was poor at the best of times.

"Don't be ridiculous. You need to get warm before you do anything else," Chilton insisted. "Please, come inside."

At any other time, Will would have refused, determined not to make himself a nuisance. As it stood, he knew Chilton was right, and Will had an impressive scorecard of fumbles to back that up: he was drunk, drunker than he should have been if he'd only had the whiskeys he could remember having. He had sleepwalked again. He had driven, drunk, in a blizzard, and had no recollection of it. He now stood outside a near-stranger's home, shaking, his entire body burning in the cold. With a barely noticeable nod, Will consented to Chilton's insistence, and began to walk with him toward the house.

"Jesus," Chilton breathed, hurrying his pace, still keeping a supportive arm hovering behind Will's back. "Your feet."

Will glanced downward. His bare feet stuck out of the bottom of his plaid pyjama bottoms, which clung to his ankles with damp. His skin was an alarming red. The sight of them seemed to heighten his awareness of the cold, and he suddenly felt more relieved than mortified to be heading into Dr. Chilton's home.

"Must've forgot my boots."

\---

The interior of Chilton's house was a very fancy blur as Will allowed himself to be led inside, directly to a spacious, painfully white bathroom. The tile felt warm beneath his frigid feet, though Will wasn't sure if it was just by comparison, or if Chilton might be the sort of person to have a heated floor in his washroom. The latter seemed as likely as the former.

"I'll get some blankets," Chilton said as he passed Will, leaning over the edge of his decadent jacuzzi tub to plug it. He turned on the water and let it run warm, checking the temperature for several seconds before straightening up and hastily leaving the room. Will turned his head to watch him go, and the room spun in response. With a queasy groan, he sat heavily on the wide edge of the bathtub, still shaking, and held his head in his hands. Desperately, he tried to recall the alarming stretch of time he'd lost. The information he sought seemed blotted out entirely, and his concentration was not aided by the pain in his feet and hands, nor by his inability to stop his trembling.

Arms filled with blankets, Chilton returned to the washroom, briefly pausing in the doorway to take in the sight of Will Graham. The bottom half of his pants were soaked through, leaving puddles around his startlingly red feet. _At least they're not frostbitten,_ Chilton thought with relief. Will's arms, bare save for the short sleeves of his dark t-shirt, were reddened also by the cold. His hair stuck to his forehead, by sweat or melted snow. Chilton hardly had time to feel anything about Will's arrival but concern, though a slew of thoughts and questions boiled just beneath the surface.

"Put your feet in the tub," Chilton urged, crossing the room to stand by Will's side. Obediently, Will pulled up the legs of his pants, tucking them messily around his knees, and turned his body round to immerse his feet. The warmth shocked him at first, but almost immediately soothed his discomfort. He closed his eyes as Chilton layered blankets over his back and shoulders.

For several moments, only the roar of the faucet cut through the silence between the two men. Will's eyes remained closed as his body temperature slowly rose, and Chilton watched the younger man freely. He felt some relief as Will's trembling lessened, and with his immediate concerns about another person's safety alleviated, his mind went into overdrive. There were too many questions unanswered, and he needed to know what was going on.

"So...what are you doing here, Mr. Graham?" Chilton asked, watching the gradually steadying rise and fall of Will's shoulders. He leaned down to shut off the water, Will's feet now immersed up to his ankles.

"Just Will. I don't know," he answered truthfully.

Chilton's eyebrows drew together as he tried to understand what could have possibly brought Will to his home.

"You don't know?"

"No."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know," Will replied sharply, and in the silence that followed, he felt a twinge of guilt. The doctor had taken him into his home after finding him in his driveway like a lost dog. He took a deep breath and hoped that his head fog would clear. His tone was apologetic when he continued.

"I have...episodes of sleepwalking," he began, opening his eyes, keeping them focused on the floor of the jacuzzi. "Sometimes lost time. I seem to have had both tonight."

"Lost time?" Chilton pressed, unable to hide his curiosity. Will Graham was enough of an interesting subject to him without the possibility of additional neuroses. He was eager to take a look inside Will's mind, and not at all concerned about disguising that fact.

"I wasn't asleep," Will went on. "At least not at first. I was in my living room, and then I was in your driveway."

"And you were drinking."

"What does that have to do with anything, Dr. Chilton?"

"Please – Frederick. Alcohol can trigger episodes of sleepwalking, as can stress. I heard about your most recent case."

Will remained silent for a moment, images of a human cello in artful display flashing behind his eyes. His jaw tightened at the memory.

"Yes."

Will's reaction did not go unnoticed by Chilton, and though he hadn't meant to provoke any such response, he felt the urge to apologize for bringing it up. He managed to let the urge pass.

"Do you want me to call someone?" Chilton asked, still carefully watching Will, who nearly laughed at the thought. Who could possibly be called?

"No, thank you."

Silence followed once again, thick in the air as previous concerns gradually proved themselves unimportant. The more time passed, they became merely two barely-acquaintances shut in a well-appointed bathroom with little to say to one another.

"Well, I'll put the kettle on." Chilton dismissed himself from the room and the growing discomfort, recognizing that the inscrutable Will Graham had little to say to him, and that trying to push could only make things more awkward.

As he busied himself with the task of making Will a cup of tea, Chilton's mind ran in circles over the unusual circumstances of the evening. Will's drinking could absolutely explain an episode of sleepwalking, and Chilton would have been willing to bet that the man hadn't been sleeping well, or much at all, since he'd been called into the field by Jack Crawford. The particular brutality of the cases to which Will had been assigned would have been enough to give any seasoned professional nightmares. And Will, with his neuroses and his empathy disorder, who, as Chilton understood it, all but stepped into the shoes of the killers themselves, surely must feel disturbed.

_But why come_ here?

It made no sense. For all Chilton knew, there was no way Will could have known where he lived, though obviously that was somehow not the case. He understood, of course, that sleepwalking is not a conscious, premeditated event, but the idea that for whatever reason Will had been drawn to Chilton's home confused and intrigued him. He felt a pull in his stomach as he thought back to the image of Will in his bathroom, wet curls clinging to his neck and forehead, body hunched in a strangely graceful curve, warming himself in Chilton's blankets. He quickly pushed the image from his mind, frowning in disbelief at his easy distraction.

With the cup of tea prepared, Chilton headed back into the bathroom to find Will exactly as he'd left him. Will turned his head at the sound of his return, and Chilton offered a brief smile. He handed the mug to Will, who took it, immediately taking a drink of the steaming liquid. Chilton winced.

"Thank you," Will murmured, unsure if the tea had helped his head to stop spinning, or if he was sobering up. When he attempted to stand and nearly lost his balance, he knew the latter was not the case.

"There's no rush," Chilton said, positioning himself to catch Will if he fell. With one hand, he took Will's tea and set it down on the edge of the tub. He straightened up and cleared his throat, the words he spoke next nearly stuck there for the anxiety they caused. He reminded himself that it was the right thing to say, given Will's state, and assured himself he made the offer for no other reason. "You can stay in one of the guest rooms until you feel better."

Will stepped as carefully as a drunk man might out of the bathtub, oblivious to being guarded by Chilton.

"I've imposed enough," he responded, growing more aware of the creeping shame he felt at his behaviour. He turned to face the man who had played unexpected host to his post-sleepwalking fiasco, and felt a pull of guilt. Dr. Frederick Chilton, psychiatrist and administrator at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, standing before him in a crisp white button-down shirt and pressed trousers, offering asylum to a man unwittingly on the run from any semblance of normalcy. Will frowned. The doctor had barely even undressed after work. Who knew what kind of day he had had before a wandering stray had interrupted his evening? "I'm very sorry."

Chilton laughed, rolling his eyes slightly. "You don't think you're driving yourself home tonight? It's miraculous you made it here without a scratch, or without killing somebody else." He watched the expression on Will's face, his own grin of disbelief widening.

"I'll save you the discomfort of asking – I'm not driving anywhere in weather like this. You're welcome to stay, or I can arrange a car for you."

He paused, feeling an internal push to press on with what could be a telling suggestion.

"Unless there's someone you can call."

Chilton recognized the fleeting expression on Will's face, feeling vindicated for having made the suggestion.

"No," Will acquiesced, quickly attempting to side-step the implied loneliness indicated by Chilton's comment. He wrapped himself more tightly in the blankets. "Thank you, Dr. Chilton – Frederick. I'll take you up on your offer."

Chilton smiled. At Will's acceptance, he felt a startling conflict inside, but recognized that it only stemmed from his adolescent attraction to the other man. Had this been any other person, he would have offered the same courtesies, and he would have been relieved to hear them accept his offer and safely stay the night. He reminded himself of this repeatedly as he and Will headed out of the bathroom.

As they made their way through the house, passing through luxuriously appointed rooms on the way to a guest bedroom, Will took stock of his situation. His head still swam with the six or more glasses of whisky he'd drank, and the warmth that had finally spread through his body only contributed to his comfortable lightheadedness. He had somehow made his way to Frederick Chilton's house in the middle of a blizzard, and more amazingly, had done so without a scratch on himself. Chilton had taken care of making him comfortable and ensuring he had a safe place to stay until he sobered up. He felt a swell of gratitude as he took in the sight of the other man, uncomfortably well-dressed for a night in at home, leading Will through the extravagant rooms of his home.

The two men could not have had more different taste in decorating, and Will's modest salary ensured that even if they had similar tastes, he could never outfit a home in the way Chilton had. Still, the rooms felt familiar to Will. The same emptiness hummed inside the walls, echoed in corners, sat in darkness waiting for the company of a solitary resident. A piano Will was certain was rarely, if ever, played, filled an impressive space on the first floor. A kitchen large enough to prepare food for a party of twenty bore only the evidence of a single dinner. Not one, but multiple guest rooms pleaded in their perfect appointment for use. They came to a stop at one such room, clearly chosen by Chilton as the most appropriate for Will. It was pristine as a high-end hotel room, but the walnut furniture and accents, Will assumed, made it seem more rustic, more suited to a man like him. He smirked slightly at the idea that anything in this house might be even loosely described as rustic.

"Your home is very impressive," Will observed, stepping further into the room. Combating a bout of the spins, he pulled out the chair next to the room's writing desk. Chilton smiled at first, puffing up with pride, before Will suddenly sat.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his concern evident. "Do you need anything?"

Will shook his head gingerly.

"No. Just too much to drink," he went on, breathing a quiet laugh. Chilton watched him for a moment, eager to be sure he was alright.

"Do you feel sick? If you'd like a glass of water – "

"Would you sit for a minute?"

Chilton's face betrayed his confusion instantly.

"Of course," he said after a brief silence, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, across from Will. He felt the urge to ask what was wrong, though Will hadn't indicated that anything was. He held in the question.

Will took a moment, taking in the perplexed expression on Chilton's face, smiling slightly at it. He was surprised by how amenable the doctor had been. It perhaps shouldn't have surprised him so much; he was, after all, a psychiatrist, and an administrator at a high-profile hospital. His professional life demanded a degree of amenity. Will had simply assumed from their previous meetings that Chilton must be as pompous and tactless outside of his office as he was in it. He had had no reason to imagine otherwise. Chilton's hawk eyes had rested on Will, firmly locked since their first meeting. The doctor clearly wanted to open up his mind and take a stroll through the cluttered maze inside. Will had resented yet another professional's foray into unabashed curiosity about his psychology. He had expected more of the same once he'd realized where he had wound up after losing time again. So far, Chilton had proven Will wrong. After a long pause, he spoke.

"I kissed Alana Bloom," Will told a psychiatrist, for the second time. He didn't know what motivated the confession, or why it felt like one. In the palpable silence that trailed behind his words, he breathed a short laugh.

"I'm sorry."

Chilton shook his head. "No need for an apology."

Will observed Chilton, wondering about the absence of questions, in stark contrast with Hannibal Lecter's reaction to the revelation. With Hannibal, it had become a conversation, an opportunity to unload, and to work through some of the fallout. Chilton's reaction – or lack, thereof – could not have been more different. Will saw the tension that had spread across Chilton's soft features, the subtle but firm set of his jaw. He recognized the reaction, as he had seen it in himself before. He saw, barely visible, the smallest hint of envy. In the wake of his words, and in Chilton's reaction, he felt the familiar nudge, pulling him back to dark corners and furtive trysts.

Clearing his throat, Chilton raised his eyebrows and cast his eyes downward, as though consulting a set of patient notes. He had let his guard down much too far, and made up for it by quickly adopting the posture and tone of Doctor Chilton once more. "And, uh, how did that make you feel?"

Chilton raised his gaze and, to his surprise, met Will's. He had always felt annoyed, perhaps even a bit offended, that Will's eye contact was so elusive to him, though he understood it to be merely a feature of Will's unique psychology. Nonetheless, in their meetings he had always desired, even felt entitled to, Will's gaze, and in the wake of these appointments had always been left feeling denied and indignant. Sitting across from Will now, meeting his eyes dead-on, Chilton felt terribly unprepared. He swallowed as Will shifted, a little clumsily, from the chair to the bed, sitting next to him. His pulse raced and his face grew hot, along with his certainty that he must be misreading something, he must be too caught up in his own misplaced and extremely inappropriate desire to see the situation clearly. Surely, there was some reason behind Will's behaviour – all of it, this included. There was some rational explanation that had nothing to do with the pull he felt simmering between them. There had to be.

He closed his eyes as Will's lips met his, gentle and tentative. He exhaled, hardly believing this could be happening, and pushed into the kiss, relieved and aroused when Will responded. He groaned softly as the kiss deepened, feeling the warmth of Will's tongue rolling over his.

If he could have ignored it, he would have happily continued down whatever path Will desired. He was beyond disbelief at this point, and wanted nothing more than to go with it. But Chilton tasted the whisky on the other man's breath, and it sent a jolting reminder through him, snapping him back to reality. Here he was, in his guest bedroom, with a drunk and vulnerable Will Graham kissing him. Will Graham, a colleague, barely an acquaintance. He might have laughed at the surreality of the situation if he hadn't felt so terrible. Reluctant, but firm, he pulled away.

Opening his eyes slowly, Will found that Chilton hadn't just paused, but had pulled back, his gaze pointedly downcast. He felt his stomach sink like a stone as he was hit by the reality of what had just happened. When he eventually met Chilton's eyes, he realized that he had made an enormous mistake.

"I've got to go," said Will hastily, his familiar defenses shooting up, his pulse deafening in his ears.

"No," Chilton countered immediately, his expression enlivened by alarm. "Wait."

Will stood, very carefully averting his gaze once again, his skin burning with embarrassment. "I have to go," he repeated, and made to head for the door.

"You can not drive home like this," Chilton said abruptly, his tone surprisingly even. He watched as Will paused, and vigilantly observed his body language. Ages seemed to pass in the span of a few seconds, the anxiety in the room stifling and thick, though the sound of Will's frustrated sigh indicated his resignation. He nodded, his back still turned, and Chilton felt a swell of relief.

"You're doing the right thing," Chilton offered, immediately wincing at the cliché. He rose, walking cautiously past Will, doing him the benefit of allowing a complete lack of eye contact.

"Let me know if there's anything you need."

Chilton closed the door behind him, heading directly into his own bedroom at the opposite end of the hall. He replayed what had happened again and again in his mind, trying to make sense of it, and finding himself entirely unable to do so. He was at least relieved, if stunned, that he was able to convince Will to stay safely put. That was the most important part. He could deal with the rest of it later, however he needed to. He was at least well practiced at masquerading.

After exchanging his crisp office wear for night clothes, Chilton crawled into his bed, still able to feel the sting of Will's stubble against his lips. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reconciled himself to the inevitability of a long, sleepless night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will examines his fears and finds that he is only pulling a thread that threatens to unravel him. Chilton attempts to make sense of what has happened, turning to an unlikely source for help.

Will awoke as he so often did now, with a feeling of crashing through the surface of a body of water. This morning, in a strange place filled with strange smells, he didn't know whether he was sinking or rising. His hand reached habitually for his glasses, slapping through thin air where his night stand should have been. Sighing as he rubbed his eyes, Will took a moment to allow his sight to adjust in the brightness of the room. Across from him sat an antique chair he now remembered settling drunkenly into the night before. With the dread of standing stuck in the tracks of an oncoming train, Will also remembered sliding out of the chair, to the very bed in which he now lay, to get closer to Dr. Chilton.

_Fuck. Shitfuck._

"No, no, no, no," he breathed, sitting up, head snapping from side to side to take in his surroundings. The room looked different than it had the night before, though whether that was due to the change in illumination or to his drunkenness hours earlier, he couldn't be sure. The images in his memory, dulled by alcohol and hangover, fleshed themselves out as he placed himself firmly in Chilton's home, recognized little things in the bedroom that he had noticed when he had first arrived. His heart thumped hard in his chest as he clawed at the memories, desperate to ensure nothing had happened, terrified to remember that something had.

"God damnit."

Will struggled free of the luxurious blankets and sheets he found himself half-tangled in, shoving them off with his feet and standing so suddenly he felt a dizzying rush. He winced as his stomach lurched, making him suffer for what he had put it through with whisky and a sore absence of anything else. His body's discomfort and protest gave him an excuse to stand still and measure the risk of the scenario he found himself in now; he checked his watch to find it was ostensibly too early for Chilton to yet be awake, and with desperate hope otherwise, he strained to hear evidence of another body moving inside the house. It was silent. He began to plan his exit.

 _No glasses,_ he thought, frustrated though grateful that his vision wasn't so poor he couldn't cope without them, _and no socks. And no shoes._

Will knew he had to leave immediately, and hopefully unnoticed. He reached down to re-roll the legs of his pyjamas in preparation for the bare-skinned trek through the snow in the driveway. Then, as quietly as he could manage, he opened the bedroom door and crept into the hallway. The only room whose door was not wide open must have been Chilton's room, at the end of the corridor. Will felt an ounce of relief knowing he didn't have to pass it in order to reach the staircase. He moved silently toward the stairs, his relief quickly replaced by dread as he heard the low timbre of Chilton's voice, engaged in a one-sided conversation whose words Will couldn't make out. With adrenaline electrifying his limbs, he bolted to the staircase and down, through the spacious foyer at the front of the house, and out the door, closing it behind him with an inescapable _thud_.

"Shit," he uttered, shocked by the cold against his exposed skin. He hesitated for a moment, mentally preparing himself before breaking into a jog toward his car. Each step that brought him closer also highlighted how dire a situation he found himself in, as the askew angle of the car and the depth of snow surrounding the tires became clearer. He knew he had grit in his trunk, and that would help his tires find traction, but this was not a situation with an easy fix.

Will's skin reddened in protest as he hurriedly brushed away piles of mercifully light snow, using his hands and arms, cursing himself for not keeping a shovel in his car. He found himself at times up to his knees in snow, scooping laughably large armfuls away from the passenger side of the car to allow access to the wheels. He worked quickly to combat the cold which burned in a familiar uncomfortable way, and to avoid the man in the expensive house.

Once he had cleared enough that he had some hope of getting out, he laid a generous covering of grit around his tires and got in, fishing his keys out of his pocket and starting the car. It didn't start without protest, rumbling like a chest filled with fluid, but with relief he heard the engine turn over and idle, loud but steady.

Three attempts to ease the car out of the shallow ditch proved fruitless. Will threw the car into park in frustration, letting his head fall back against the rest. He knew he wouldn't be able to push the car out of its position by himself, and with the clock ticking ever closer to office hours, Will knew he needed out of there, as quickly as possible. With the force of habit he reached for his phone, only to remember he hadn't brought it with him. _No calling a tow truck, then._

At the sound of crunching snow, Will's stomach sank. He turned his head to see a fully-dressed, winter-ready Chilton heading down the driveway, shovel in hand, toward the car. His hangdog expression did little to put Will at ease; their discomfort was mutual, that much was clear.

Chilton's voice came, muffled and flattened as it passed through the windows of the Volvo.

"Do you need a hand?"

Will shook his head, pointedly avoiding the other man's eyes. "No."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll push."

Chilton set down the shovel, seeing that Will had already dug the tires and their paths free. In any other circumstance, Will would have laughed at the image of Chilton attempting to push a stuck car. Instead, he repeated himself.

"No."

Chilton's voice sounded again, firmly.

"You need my help."

He was right, Will knew. If nothing else, he was Will's only opportunity to phone a tow truck. Otherwise, he was going to help Will get the car unstuck himself. There were no other options, beyond walking barefoot to the end of the street and hoping for an early commuter heading down Chilton's exclusive street. His jaw tightened and relaxed again and again.

Opening the door abruptly, Will stepped out of the car.

"Get in."

Chilton observed him, puzzled.

"I'm going to push the car, you're going to steer it," Will clarified, in a tone that suggested a frustrated adult talking down to a misbehaving child.

"Ah."

Chilton passed Will, taking clear note of his bare feet once again, but not daring to breathe a word about it. He stepped into the modest car and buckled the seatbelt before glancing down at the gear selector. His eyes were drawn to a familiar sight immediately: though crinkled and damaged by water, Chilton recognized his business card in the cup holder.

Several attempts in, Will rocking the car with as much force as he could muster and Chilton hitting the gas when instructed by Will, the car mercifully rolled backward, crunching over the grit and pulling up onto the level driveway. Will stayed in his spot, hands on his knees, catching his breath. The sound of his car door opening and then closing was his cue to straighten up. He did so with a wince, his body in firm protest, unforgiving after its recent treatment.

"Thanks," said Will curtly, passing Chilton and getting back into the car, the warm air of the heater stinging his already sore skin.

"Will, wait. I'd like to talk to you about - "

Chilton watched as Will closed the car door and craned his body around, navigating out of the driveway in reverse. He never looked back at Chilton, and within seconds had sped away down the freshly ploughed street.

\--- 

Chilton woke before his alarm, despite his restless night. He had managed a few hours' sleep, spread out disjointedly amidst the eight hours he'd laid in bed, thinking and then dreaming about the events of the previous night. All the desperate poring over each detail, the replaying of every moment leading up to their kiss, had done little to lessen the confusion Chilton felt.

Of course, he had enjoyed every second of the kiss. He had thought about it before, though it had never played out in his mind the way it had in reality. In his mind, he was free to cast off the things he knew better than to ignore in life. In his mind, it had happened easily, sometimes tenderly, sometimes aggressively. He had played out scenarios he knew would never happen in reality, and accepted them as harmless fantasies about an attractive almost-colleague. He hadn't made many assumptions about Will's sexuality, though he had supposed like so many other men he felt drawn to that he was interested only in women. Will's confession about his kiss with Dr. Bloom had made that clearer to Chilton, but for it to be immediately followed by a kiss of their own made it plain that this was more complicated than he'd imagined.

He knew they needed to talk about what had happened if they could ever be expected to work together again, and Chilton was certain they would. He knew also that there was a good chance the conversation would not go well. Will's drunkenness lowering his inhibition, Chilton's breaking off of their kiss, and Will's embarassment – not to mention the _sleepwalking and lost time_ that had brought him to Chilton's home in the first place – were a potential powder keg. Certainly the air was better cleared sooner rather than later. With a frustrated sigh, Chilton climbed out of bed and began to ready himself for the day, and for the conversation that would soon come.

As Chilton showered and dressed, still replaying the previous evening in his head, he began to wonder how much of what had happened could be explained by Will's mental state, rather than just drunken curiosity. He had extensively read literature about abnormal psychology and knew that there was a special niche somewhere under that broad heading that was labeled with Will Graham's name. His fascination about the man was unparalleled, and Will's timid revelations about his most recent cognitive disturbances had only piqued that interest. He knew as he had told Will that they may have been a result of stress, of lack of sleep, but he wondered if there couldn't be something more to it. He wondered if knowing about Will's disturbances might make more sense of what had happened the previous night, for better or for worse. He knew who would know.

_Hannibal God Damn Lecter._

Though he made every effort to appear as affable as possible in Dr. Hannibal Lecter's presence, Chilton despised the man. He despised him for his professional achievements, and the ease with which he seemed to procure them. He despised him for the dinner parties he hosted, spoken about for weeks afterward by attendees as though they were concerts whose guests had slept on sidewalks to purchase tickets for. He despised how many times his own work was passed over in academia, while Lecter's was praised. But Chilton was a smart man, and understood the importance of keeping in the good books of the powerful and influential. He had worked his way into Lecter's professional circle, and would stay there.

Chilton also had to admit, grudgingly, that Lecter was singularly insightful, a razor-sharp mind capable of working even the tightest lips open. He knew that he wasn't technically Will Graham's therapist, but that he and Will were close. He knew Lecter would know more about Will's state of mind than he himself ever could. The ethical dilemma that presented itself when Chilton considered gently nudging the doctor for information was easy enough for Chilton to sweep under the rug; after all, he wasn't going to use this information to harm anyone, and Will never needed to know. Convincing himself that his curiosity only extended as far as ensuring Will's mental health and stability, Chilton drew out his phone and dialed the office number of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

_You have reached the private and confidential mailbox of Hannibal Lecter._

Chilton peeked out of his bedroom into the corridor, listening for the sounds of movement from the guest room Will occupied. Satisfied that the man was still asleep, he ducked back into the room and closed the door.

_Please leave a detailed message, along with your name and the time and date of your call, and I will respond as soon as I am able. Thank you._

Chilton cleared his throat.

"Ah, yes. Hello, Dr. Lecter, it's Dr. Chilton. I'm calling well before your office hours on Thursday morning. If you would be so kind as to give me a call back when you've received this message, I would appreciate it. Thank you."

Slipping his phone into his pants pocket, Chilton turned to give himself a once-over in the mirror. He took pride in his appearance on any given day, but this morning had been careful to tailor his image even more impeccably than usual. His choice of outfit had been informed by a strong desire to impress, down to the very specific choice of his tie clip and cufflinks. He chose a pair of shoes that complemented the ensemble and had begun to pull them on when he heard the distinct _thud_ of the front door closing.

He darted to his large bedroom window to see barefoot Will jogging to his car through inches-deep snow, and then frantically, with his bare hands, shoveling away the snow obstructing his tires.

_You've got to be kidding me._

Pulling his shoes back off, Chilton hurried downstairs and shoved his feet into his winter boots. He cursed as he realized they would wrinkle the bottoms of his freshly pressed trousers, but had little time to fuss with them if Will was going to race off without a word. A small part of Chilton thought it might be a better idea to let Will run than to try to talk anything over so soon. At the same time, Chilton knew that the chances of Will getting his car out of the snow without help were slim. He sighed heavily, pulled on a winter coat, and headed into the snow.

\---

Will broke several highway speed laws in his haste to get back to Wolf Trap to shower and dress. He tuned his radio, usually silent, to a talk-radio station in the hopes that active, live conversation would drown out the other things ringing in his ears. He focused carefully on the words of the two men with annoyingly distinctive voices, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He hoped for a busy day, inquisitive and engaged classes, and no unexpected visitors.

He would have been a half an hour late for his morning class, at best, so when Jack Crawford called Will to inform him of a crime scene which needed his unique insight, he felt somewhat relieved. The tone of Crawford's voice let Will know that this scene would be particularly challenging, though he refused to give details over the phone. This bothered Will more than it might have on another day, given that the drive to Grafton from Wolf Trap was well over three hours, and the last thing Will needed was a long stretch of time to be alone with his thoughts. Details would have at least offered distraction.

When he arrived at the scene, he understood Crawford's hesitation to explain over the phone.

The totem pole was massive and imposing, a scar on the long stretch of icy white beach. Seven pauper's graves, recently exhumed, surrounded the totem like the petals of a flower. The medieval monument to obscenity loomed over Will as he took it in, examining its limbs and heads, its torsos and feet, the dirt that encrusted cavities and cracks in bone, replacing flesh with earth. In his disquieted focus, the voices around him faded to the murmur of a detuned radio.

Crawford called for the clearing of the scene, and in the blur of his peripheral vision, Will watched the gradual emptying of the beach. He was alone, then, with the mighty totem. He stepped into the unhinged mind of its architect, replaying its careful, artistic construction. Limb by limb, pound by pound, he built the mocking pillar, coming to know the man who had envisioned it and brought it to life. Decades of planning, of murder, all coming together here, left as a terrible legacy for the world to behold.

In the blink of an eye, the cold of the beach and the shadow of the totem were swallowed up by the warmth and familiar smell of somewhere far from Grafton. A new kind of dread filled Will as he jolted back into himself, gripped by confusion and fear. He looked about himself frantically, recognizing his surroundings though they made no sense or connections in his mind, as though he were looking at an artist's rendering of a familiar place: recognizable, but somehow strange.

A familiar voice brought him into the present.

"Will. I wasn't expecting you."

\---

Though Hannibal Lecter had received Frederick Chilton's voicemail minutes after arriving at his office, he had been unable to resist playing with the man, just a little. In his message, the tone of Chilton's voice had been carefully measured, his delivery deliberate and calm. Or, at least, so it would have seemed to another person. With everything Lecter knew about the man and his insatiable need to showboat for him, to elbow his way into Lecter's good favour while remaining oblivious to his own insufferability, he understood the uncomfortable subtext behind the message. A professionally cheery tone could not mask the desperation in the request. Humility was not a quality Chilton embodied, so it came as no surprise that an anxious call for help to a man he regarded as superior would be poorly masked as a matter of non-urgency, something that could safely just be _gotten around to_. Lecter took pleasure in ignoring the request for a number of hours, until the gentle threat of evening.

There were days when Lecter had to remind himself how much of an unnecessary risk it would be to kill Dr. Chilton. Though an impressive and terrifying track record spanning years had more than proven Lecter's ability to murder without consequence, Chilton was too close, at least for now. An Americanism he had heard once had stuck in Lecter's mind, despite its blue-collar inelegance. _Don't shit where you eat._

Still, at times, his mind would wander to the inevitable day it would happen. At the right time and in the right place, one way or another, he would end Chilton's life. He would often daydream, imagining Chilton's death coming in a myriad of ways, varying due to circumstance. He would carefully consider what parts of the man he would eat, and what parts would be given back to the world, in a gesture of gratitude for the pleasure of snuffing out Chilton's life. He imagined tableaus of blood and viscera; he imagined a scavenger hunt for the pieces. It brought him a sense of serenity.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Chilton."

"Ahh, yes, yes, Doctor Lecter, hello."

The hopeful jump in pitch, the rapid delivery.

"I'm terribly sorry for the delay in returning your call. As I'm sure you can understand, today's schedule has been very full."

"Of course," Chilton allowed, eager to seem amenable. "I've had a day like that myself. I appreciate you taking the time to call me back."

Saving face, pretending he hadn't been watching his phone all day.

"What is it I can help you with, Dr. Chilton?"

A pregnant pause over the line.

"Yes, of course. Actually, it's regarding one of your patients. Or, rather, one of your _unofficial_ patients."

Chilton paused again, and Lecter let the discomfort steep in silence.

"It's about Will Graham."

Lecter's interest piqued, despite himself.

"Go on."

"I'm not sure how to say this without startling you. I know you and he are somewhat close. The reason I called is I'm concerned about Will's stability."

"His stability?"

"Yes, for lack of a better word. Dr. Lecter, Will Graham showed up at my home last night, having driven to it in a snowstorm – shoeless, no less, _and_ drunk - and had absolutely no recollection of how he had got there when I spoke with him."

More silence, a buffer of professional restraint. Chilton went on.

"He mentioned to me that he's been experiencing episodes of sleepwalking, of 'lost time.' I'm concerned that this line of work is having an effect on him."

Lecter spoke in a careful tone. "I can imagine this line of work would have an effect on anyone."

"Yes, but - "

"Dr. Chilton," Lecter interjected. "While I appreciate the reasons for your concerns, I don't believe it's appropriate for us to have this conversation. Will may not officially be my patient, but he is my friend. It would be unethical of me to disclose the private matters we've discussed during our conversations."

A long, satisfying pause on the other end.

"Of course," came Chilton's voice, eventually. "You're right. I hope you'll excuse me, it was simply startling, and I was hoping to shed some light on it."

Backpedaling. Lecter felt a swell of contentment at the other man's unmistakable discomfort.

"I assure you, there is no need to apologize. I understand your concern. I hope you can find some peace of mind knowing that Will and I will most certainly discuss this at our next meeting."

As their conversation drew to a close, Lecter's curiosity grew immensely. Chilton had been uncomfortable through the majority of the phone call, but that uneasiness had become progressively more tangible by the time they hung up. There was much more to this story, and Lecter would delight in drawing it out. He could smell the something-else on the conversation like a vulture smells its prey, miles before it has laid eyes on it. Along with it, tangible in the air, drifted the faintest hint of a distinct, cheap aftershave. Little ship on the bottle. Lecter smiled to himself, pulling on his coat, heading to the door to open onto a waiting Will Graham.

\---

Will sat in his car outside of the grey, utilitarian building that housed Jack Crawford's office, trying to work up the courage to go inside. Why he was so nervous, he couldn't fully grasp. Jack was a generally understanding man, and his care for Will was evident. But something about entering the office to apologize for the previous day set him on edge, more than it might normally have. Behind his apology, which he practiced in his head again and again, lingered a different kind of shame.

He had worried when he had seen his colleagues on the beach in Grafton that there was something different about him, some tell that was plainly visible to the people he was closest to. How could there have been, really, but Will worried that his experience with Chilton hours earlier was somehow plain on his face, that the discomfort he felt radiated and attracted questions and speculation. He worried the same way he had after fumbling in dark rooms with men in his younger years. _Did anyone see us? Will he tell anyone? How will people react when they find out?_

The anxiety was not worth the trade-off: the brief excitement, the exhilaration of opening a door normally deadbolted and off-limits. The feeling of drunken understanding between two bodies. It felt, after sobering up, like swimming naked in a shark tank before an audience of impartial quidnuncs, just there to see the blood. He was terrified to be regarded as an object of insatiable curiosity, for fear that someone might see through his layers and realize the truth, that they might come to a conclusion about Will's identity before even he had.

Growing up in rural Louisiana had done little for Will in terms of fleshing out his understanding of human sexuality. He recognized from a young age that some things in life were black and white. Men were men. Men desired women. Men who didn't were sissies, or worse. His own father had made sure to instill these beliefs in Will as passionately as he taught him to tie fishing lures, and both teachings were intimately linked to Will's sense of belonging in his father's eyes. He was always grateful for the normalcy of his childhood crushes on girls, always felt a puff of pride when his stepmother excitedly snapped polaroids of Will with his dates, which came along rarely, though they did come along. A small, but treasured collection of faded photographs in dusty albums, reinforcing the simplicity of the world in the excited but understated hand-holding of a young man and woman.

Of course, Will knew as a grown man that things were not so simple for everyone. Though he had few friends – calling them few was generous – and none who had ever openly told him they were anything but heterosexual, he understood without prejudice that love and attraction were not dictated by phobic norms reinforced through fear-mongering and hatred. He respected the diversity of sexuality, as much as he feared his own. The teachings of his father, of the men he had looked up to as a child, and sometimes the women, had embroidered a tight weaving of discomfort around his own identity, as much as he had grown out of the problematic beliefs put on him in his youth. Moving north, working in large cities, had done much to open Will's eyes and broaden his perspectives. But no amount of understanding and acceptance could help Will reconcile the frightening draw he felt to those few men with whom he had shared brief and unfulfilled attraction. Where did it leave him, Will Graham from Boondocks, Louisiana, if he admitted to himself that he had wanted to kiss those men? That he had been disappointed when Chilton had pulled away? Didn't he still feel strong affection and an intense attraction to Alana Bloom? He did. It only confused him more.

After yet another blackout, Will had confided in Hannibal Lecter, had told him in a state of panic that he was worried about what was happening to him. Something must be wrong, he was sure. Hallucinations and periods of lost time don't occur without reason, and maybe it was more than just stress. Maybe whatever it was explained some of his other erratic behaviour, too. He had felt like an insolent child when Lecter had pushed aside his suggestion of a brain scan. That was the wrong corner in which to look, according to the doctor, and more likely than not, Will's dissociation was triggered by nothing more than his work. Will had hoped to find clarity speaking with Lecter. Instead, he had left feeling more lost than before.

Steeling himself against his fear, Will shoved these thoughts from his mind and headed into the FBI building, toward Jack Crawford's office. He rapped lightly on the heavy glass door and entered.

Jack glanced up from his neatly appointed desk, though his attention remained focused on the paperwork before him.

"Hey."

Will stepped further into the office, approaching the desk as one might carefully approach an unfamiliar animal.

"I'm sorry about yesterday."

"Sorry about what?"

Jack's tone betrayed no knowledge of what Will apologized for, and this confused him. Hadn't it been obvious? He had blacked out and left the scene of the crime, driven three hours unconsciously. How could he not have seemed off?

"I wasn't feeling like myself."

"Well, not feeling like yourself, that's kind of what you do, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," Will allowed with an uneasy laugh. Unease churned in his gut as he began to realize just how much he had lost during his lost time, if he had seemed outwardly normal to those around him.

"So, I seemed fine to you?"

An unsettling pause. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Will felt a jolt of adrenaline.

"Ah, no. No, no."

"Well, clearly, there's something that you don't want to tell me," Jack pressed, his eyes and attention turning to focus solidly on Will.

"I – I guess I just got a little lost yesterday, is all," Will stammered, feeling his heart rate increase. Jack's focused and calculating gaze did little to assuage Will's irrational fear that somehow, Jack knew. He knew all of it.

"And where are you today?"

"It got to me," Will answered, nodding slightly. "All those bodies got to me. And, uh, I thought it was a little more obvious than – than it was."

_A lie by omission is still a lie._

Jack inhaled deeply, regarding Will with curious concern.

"If there's a problem, you need to tell me."

Will nodded calmly as his mind bellowed in protest. _Yes, there's a problem. No, I won't tell you._

"Is there a problem, Will?"

"Everything's fine," he lied, with an unconvincing smile.

After a pause which gave no hints as to whether or not Jack truly believed him, the man conceded.

"Alright."

"Alright."

Will exited the office as uncomfortably as he'd entered, feeling foolish for having brought any of this to Jack's doorstep. It must have been obvious to the other man that Will was hiding something, though for some reason, Jack hadn't pressed. Will didn't know if that was due to a respectful understanding, or to a desire to remain ignorant of Will's slowly increasing separation from reality. He felt a flood of cold beneath his skin at the idea of the latter. It was as though his life were on the verge of unhinging, and too many variables pressed against his walls.

Preparing for one of his classes helped Will to compartmentalize once again, to focus on something not intrinsically tied to his own personal tumult. Eagerly, he dove into notemaking, parceling up his fears about his mental state, and the events of two nights earlier. With weary eyes, he pored over photographs of the monstrous totem, determined to find no reflection in the vacant eyes of the dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of investigating a particularly brutal killing, Will's appointment with Hannibal leads to some uncomfortable and dangerous revelations.

Will's exhaustion grew and evolved as days passed, fueled by restless nights bookended with nightmares and starts. It hunkered in his bones, deep and heavy, thick like an autumn fog. He could feel it always, like a presence apart from himself, stifling him, pressing in, wearing him thin. It didn't help that whatever was causing his episodes of lost time seemed utterly unshakable. Recently, he had been discovered by Alana Bloom in a darkened and empty lecture hall, orating to vacant seats. He had earlier, of course, been lecturing to a class, before that scenario had melted away like so many others, leaving him confused and unnerved. He was beginning to lose track of the amount of times he had dissociated. Steadily, his concerns about his mental health grew.

But was it his mental health, in the strictest sense? He had spoken to Hannibal Lecter about this, about the brain scan of which Lecter had brushed off any suggestion. That rejection still simmered uncomfortably in Will's memory. Lecter was a doctor of the mind, and Will trusted his judgment implicitly, but he reminded himself that this was – possibly, hopefully, please _god_ let it be – about the brain, more than just the mind. If nothing else, a physical cause would at least offer the mercy of absolution. A tumor was beyond his control, not his fault. The alternative was more unsettling. Will reminded himself that Lecter could easily have overlooked some telltale sign in his psychiatrist's tunnel vision. He clung to that hope as he nursed his morning coffee, welcoming the familiar buzz of caffeine he had grown to need since beginning his field work.

Wolf Trap was undeniably muddling through an unusual winter of highs and lows, storms and periods of calm, frigidity and unseasonal mildness. The snow that had fallen so heavily days before, and that still covered most of Baltimore in a torn and rough-hewn canopy of rapidly dulling white, had leeched back into the Virginia earth with spatterings of icy rain. To look out the kitchen window that morning, Will thought, it almost seemed like an early spring day. The cold that bit his skin when he opened the window smelled fresh. _Refreshing._ He inhaled it deeply, filling his lungs with its pinching sting. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt relieved to have nothing to do. It had been too long since he had taken a day to himself. He might have worried that his transgression in Frederick Chilton's home would haunt him, undistracted by work, if he didn't know how wholly a fly fishing excursion would quiet his head.

Fishing made sense to Will, in a particular and meticulous way. He had been taught by his father, an expert fisherman, the designing of lures, the proper form for casting, and where and how to position oneself in the water depending on the careful assessment of variables. The sport was one of the only things they'd shared intimately, and their fishing trips were some of the only times Will felt close to his father. He was a distant man from those he loved, including his wife and son, though he did love them. A product of his environment and his upbringing, the elder Graham believed that his rigidity and taciturn nature befitted his role as a father, husband, and breadwinner. He had little understanding for a small boy with unique needs and social habits which, though subtle, were always present. Will was forever thankful that one of the hobbies he had a fastidious passion and aptitude for was one which allowed him to connect with his father, where so many of his other interests only highlighted their differences. They didn't need to talk when they were fishing. They didn't need to argue. Will didn't need to be a nuisance. There was only father, son, and the river. He felt the lingering peace of those memories as he waded knee-deep in Difficult Run, the late-morning sky dulled with clouds. His father was long dead, a victim of his own numerous excesses, but his teachings were with Will always as he fished alone, peaceful, contentedly lost in the present. He remembered his father's words and his lessons, remembered the heavy, sturdy presence of him by his side. These excursions, solo now since his father's death, were always for them both, a communion between two men who could never fully bring down the walls between them.

The river yielded a number of catches for Will: long, thick, silver-grey fish whose scales shone with subtle iridescence. He brought them home, mentally plotting out the simple meals their flesh would provide, considering the different ways he would prepare them. Cooking was not something Will particularly liked to do, though he didn't loathe it, and despite the tedium he did take a certain pleasure in preparing meals from the fish he had caught. It reminded him of the family meals he had always enjoyed as a child, his father feeding the family from food he had caught, cleaned, and butchered himself. He recalled also the fishing trips that had felt more like jobs than pastimes, catching as many fish as possible and hauling them home on tired shoulders, preparing large numbers of them for big get-togethers and fish fries. It had been years since Will had been to any such event, though as he looked over the decent-sized lot of fish he'd caught, he was struck by a pang of sadness. It was enough to feed a party, but he knew he'd prepare them, pack them, and stick them in his freezer, to be taken out piece by piece as his own needs dictated.

_You could always invite someone over,_ goaded his traitorous mind. _You're making new friends all over the place._

Memories of his interaction with Frederick Chilton came unbidden and unwanted. Will shook them off as quickly as they came, shoving at the discomfort they stirred in his gut. It was a raw and tenacious uneasiness that Will fought to ignore, rather than examine. No, Chilton was not his friend, and he certainly would never be.

Returning from his distraction, Will laid out the fish on his counter, looking them over. Different types and sizes, different meals. He would prepare and pack most of them for later, but decided on a particularly weighty specimen for his lunch. He handled the fish, carefully removing the hook from its mouth with an unspoken apology. Back to the familiar. The safe. He lifted it, feeling the heft of its body, and set it down on the countertop. He had done this a thousand times or more, and with the ease of an expert, he cut into it.

Blood. Thick, and dark, and too much, far too much. Will watched as the fish's belly released an inky and unnatural pool of the fluid, spreading rapidly, impossibly. He felt his hold on the present begin to slip in the horror of the surreal and surely imagined bloodletting in his kitchen.

_It is 11:30 AM. I am in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is Will Graham. It is 11:30 AM. I am in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is Will Graham._

He caught his reflection in the red-black puddle, his face changing, unrecognizable. Slit into a horrible, broad, bloodstained grin.

\---

For the second time in a week, Will showed up unexpectedly at Hannibal Lecter's office, his face wearing signs of exhaustion and anxiety. Lecter could smell the blood on the other man long before he saw the dried remnants of it on his forearm.

"Will," he said calmly, with an expertly measured tone of concern. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Will responded with a low laugh. He stepped into the impressive office as Lecter moved aside in invitation. "No, everything is definitely not alright."

Lecter watched Will as he paced the office, moving as though to sit in one of the two armchairs before thinking better of it. He turned back to face Lecter, his agitation evident. There it was, the small bit of missed blood, as Will raised an arm to push tense fingers through his hair.

"It happened again. _Again,_ again."

"You dissociated. Lost time."

"Yes. Yes, only this time, when I – when I _woke up,_ " Will continued, spitting out the words with a level of clear scorn, "I thought I had killed someone."

Lecter stepped toward Will, slowly. "Tell me what happened."

"A girl – she was murdered in her bedroom. She was killed by someone who had been waiting for her. He cut her face, from her mouth to her ears. I woke up, and I was on top of her, with a knife, covered in her blood – "

Lecter felt the thrill of interest as Will described the scene, though he knew better than to press for more details. He could read about the scene later, examine the photographs.

"The killer, that man, wasn't you," Lecter reassured Will.

"No, no, I know, but it – it _felt_ like it was."

Will heaved a sigh, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He began to pace once again.

"I still have the coppery smell of blood on my hands. I can't remember seeing the crime scene before I saw myself killing her."

"Those memories sank out of sight, yet you're aware of their absence."

"There's a grandiosity to the violence I imagined that feels more real than what I know is true," Will explained, exasperated.

"What do you know to be true?"

"I know I didn't kill her. I couldn't have. But I remember cutting into her. I remember watching her die."

Will Graham, genius of empathy, plagued by the memories of murdering victims who were not his own. It was delicious to watch his mind unfolding in this new way, his delusions revealing themselves as a flowering weed breaking through cracks in pavement. And there was something else there, Lecter was certain. It wasn't only the smell of blood on Will's skin, but a sweeter smell, familiar to the doctor, presenting a beautiful palette of possibilities. It was the smell of disease, devouring Will from the inside. He had known for some time, had been unsurprised at the exhibition of symptoms. Will knew, too, somewhere. That much had been made clear when he had suggested he see a neurologist. But, Will's mere recognition of a problem was not enough to stop the train Lecter had set into motion. If anything, it afforded him more freedom to explore. It inspired creativity.

"You must overcome these delusions that are disguising your reality."

Will was silent. He didn't like that word, _delusions_. Of course he didn't. He was a man who had feared nearly his entire life that he was in the grip of some form of degenerative mental illness. The visceral lapses in Will's mind only supported his fears, even if he knew on a more rational level that he was far saner than he imagined himself to be. Lecter went on.

"What kind of savage delusions does this killer have?"

"It wasn't savage. It was _lonely_. Desperate. Sad." A short, contemplative pause. "I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I looked right through me. Past me. As if I was just a stranger."

Lecter approached Will, closing the gap between them. Will averted his gaze.

"You have to honestly confront your limitations with what you do, and how it affects you."

"If by limitations, you mean the difference between sanity and insanity, I don't accept that."

"What do you accept?"

"I know what kind of crazy I am, and this isn't that kind of crazy. This could be...seizures. A tumor. A blood clot."

"I can recommend a neurologist. But, if it isn't physiological, then you have to accept what you're struggling with is mental illness."

Will gave an uneasy nod, responding predictably to the jab of that very particular button. His discomfort piqued, humming in the space between the two men. Lecter stepped away, returning to his desk. He stood for a moment, looking down at the impeccably organized desktop, allowing the tension to stew with each second that passed. Eventually, he turned his attention to his rolodex, fingering the entries until he came to the card he sought.

"Doctor Donald Sutcliffe," he said, stepping toward Will and handing him the card. "His practice normally books weeks in advance, but if you'd like, I can contact him personally and request that he see you within the next few days."

Will nodded hopefully, staring down at the card. "You know him well?"

"For a long time," Lecter answered. "I have every confidence in his ability. If there is something wrong, Will, Dr. Sutcliffe will find it."

Lecter watched the hesitant but expectant relief on Will's face.

"And...you'll call him for me? To arrange this?"

"I will. I trust your schedule is relatively flexible given the nature of your field work."

"Yes. Yes. Any time," Will consented, his tone mildly overwrought. He handed the card back to Lecter.

How wonderful it is to witness the burgeoning of doomed hope, to see the bright glint of it in the eyes of a person who, in all truthfulness, should have none. Lecter knew that Will was right, that something was wrong, but he knew that this appointment would not lead to that conclusion. At least, not to Will's knowledge. This was too rare an opportunity to stoke such a brilliantly constructed fire. Will had laid the kindling himself in all his self-doubt, in the use of his disorder in such a terrifying and dangerous way, in his abject fear of his own deteriorating mental health. It was up to Lecter, now, to watch over it, to feed it. To help it grow.

"I'm glad you're here, Will," Lecter began after a brief silence, infusing careful hesitance into his demeanour before continuing. "I had wanted to speak to you about your episodes."

_Episodes._ Another word Will despised.

"I received a somewhat concerning phone call from Frederick Chilton several days ago."

The blood rushed from Will's face. His pupils dilated. His posture became rigid, as though he had suddenly remembered that he was inside his body, and might be inadvertently revealing something through its language. They were reactions Lecter had anticipated, in light of the loaded conversation he'd had with Chilton. _So, we've touched on something interesting._

"You know what it was regarding," Lecter went on, watching with great pleasure and curiosity the responses of Will's sympathetic nervous system.

Will began to stammer in response, and Lecter mercifully cut him off.

"I understand you lost time and ended up at his home, with no recollection of how you'd arrived."

Will gave a jerky nod. "Uhm – yeah. Yeah, I don't – I don't know how it happened."

"You had been drinking."

"He called you?"

"Yes," Lecter answered. "He was concerned about your well-being, as am I. I'm still uncomfortable with the level of stress this new role is putting on you."

"I know," Will responded, too quickly. His nervous habits returned as he began to pace, his hands moving from his sides to his head and back. "I know."

"You'll let me know if this happens again, whenever it happens?"

"Uh-huh. Yes."

"And for the time being, if you're losing time and ending up in your car, it may be a good idea to restrict your drinking."

Will gave a curt laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I don't mean to offend you," Lecter assured Will, cocking his head slightly. "Your safety is of great importance to me."

After a brief pause in which Will quite clearly weighed his defensive reaction against Lecter's reassurance, he nodded.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Will."

Will gave a tight-lipped smile that tried, but couldn't mask the turmoil stirred up inside him.

"I've really got to be going," he said abruptly. He retrieved his jacket and slung it over his arm, briskly heading toward the door. "Thank you for seeing me."

"You're my friend, Will. You don't ever need to thank me for that."

With one last nod, Will exited the office, walking hurriedly down the corridor. Lecter watched until he had disappeared around a corner, and then turned to head back into his office.

Lecter had expected discomfort at the revelation of the phone call from Chilton, but what Will had delivered was much more than what he could have hoped for. It was a different kind of anxiety that had flooded Will's body, practically tangible, reeking of fear, when he had discovered that Lecter knew.

But knew what?

It was clear that both Chilton and Will had kept some exquisite bit of information from Lecter, and that knowledge did little to discourage his interest. He wasn't so presumptuous as to draw any finite conclusions, though there were only so many points on a compass. The temptation to whittle away at this hastily thrown-together coverup was fierce. What an interesting set of possibilities this presented for his future therapy sessions with Will.

\---

The brightness of headlights sent a shock of illumination across a room which had grown dark accidentally. Unlit lamps and fixtures were only so because the man who would turn them on whenever darkness fell had nodded off in his armchair, his lap full of papers which threatened to flit to the floor with the slightest rustling. A great neck ache awaited him when he woke, asleep for over an hour with his chin to his chest, head lolling toward his right shoulder. He snored softly, the uneven rumble the only sound apart from the ambient hum of appliances in nearby rooms.

Breaking the silence, a doorbell with an opulent _ding-dong,_ rich and clear as a carillon. The sound did not fully wake Chilton, though he stirred, sending the papers on his lap to the floor in a mess of page numbers and publication dates. The sensation nudged gently at him, softly encouraging him into wakefulness.

"Mm...oh," he mumbled, mind heavy with sleep. His vision was blurry, helped none by the darkness in the room. Groping for a lamp, he raised his head, wincing in discomfort. _How long've I been asleep?_

_Thud-thud-thud._

A rush of panic enlivened Chilton's limbs as his sleep-fogged head tried to make sense of the sudden, booming noise. He stood, anxious in his own living room, confused and disoriented from his unexpected sleep. Had that pounding been the front door?

_THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD._

Definitely the front door. Chilton crept to his window, peering out into the driveway. Why he should feel so frightened was beyond him – though, it occurred to him with sudden and terrifying clarity, that he had of course put many men behind heavily guarded walls in his hospital. A panicked flash of all the horrible possibilities, the faces of those who had been transferred, or released, or who could have broken out while he had slept, for all he knew. There was no shortage of people who might wish to harm Chilton, to seek revenge for his careful psychiatric assessments which had so often led to prolonged incarceration. His heart pounded; he ran through an inventory of items between himself and the foyer that he could wield as weapons against whoever might be thumping at his door.

And then, finally coming more clearly into focus, illuminated by the motion-sensitive floodlight at the front of the house, he made out Will Graham's Volvo, idle in the driveway.

_Oh, thank God._

_THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-_

"I'm coming! I'm coming."

Chilton gracelessly stubbed his toe on an armchair as he hurried to the foyer, cursing aloud. With barely any time to consider the situation at hand, he opened the front door. An instant later, he longed for the brief comfort his short-lived relief had afforded him.

"What else did you tell him?" Will spat, a harsh and startling greeting. His eyes flashed, alive with anger and uncomfortably locked with Chilton's. The firm set of Will's jaw, the fury that radiated from him like summer heat off tarmac, sent Chilton stepping back from the threshold.

"What? What are you talking about?"

Will lowered his voice, speaking in an aggressive but hushed tone, giving a furtive glance over his shoulder before going on.

"You know God damn well what I'm talking about. _What else did you tell him?"_

_Oh, shit._

"Who – Dr. Lecter?" Chilton asked, expending an enormous amount of effort to keep his facial expression neutral, politely inquisitive. Will had to be referring to Dr. Lecter, as Chilton hadn't breathed a word of what had happened days earlier to anyone else. He hadn't imagined that Lecter would have turned around and told Will about the conversation, though. With a fleeting sensation of betrayal, Chilton frowned.

"I suppose it was a big thrill to have something to tell Hannibal about me. You've ridden his coattails long enough, it must have felt good to _finally_ have something of interest to share with him," Will went on, the shadows cast by the overhead patio light pooling beneath his eyes, making him appear hollow, sunken. His appearance, exaggerated by his anger, frightened Chilton.

"It was nothing like that!" Chilton countered, laying aside the strike at his ego to attempt to defuse the more pressing situation at hand. "I was worried about you. That's all."

Will laughed, a sound made ugly with contempt. "And – and what, you suddenly have only an altruistic interest in me?" He raised his eyebrows. "What happened to your professional curiosity?"

"Will – I'm sorry it came back to you the way it did. And I didn't say anything about...about what happened."

"Nothing happened."

"No – right – nothing – but I didn't say anything about it, anyway."

Will's discomfort was plain in his defensive posture, his flexing jaw, in the tension across his shoulders and neck. He was furious, absolutely livid with Chilton and what he had done. But there was more to his unexpected arrival than just anger. The man who stood before him was afraid. Behind him, trailing like a spectre, the cast shadow of a slight boy, hunched inward, hiding in plain sight. A young man, protecting himself from the fears put upon him by those he loved the most. Someone so terrified of himself he couldn't bear to have anyone else truly see him, unguarded, defenseless. Chilton recognized that boy. He felt, standing in the foyer in his sock feet, watching the man across from him, the deep-seated ache of familiarity.

"Then – then what did you hope to gain, talking to Hannibal about me?" Will demanded, a shade of desperation in his voice as he began to recognize Chilton's honesty. "Huh? What did you think would happen?"

"Will," Chilton began, the other man wincing at the personal use of his first name. "You weren't yourself that night – "

"Damn right I wasn't."

" – and you would have given _any_ physician a great deal of cause for concern. I thought it would be in your best interest if your psychiatrist was aware of what had happened."

"And you didn't think that I was the one who should tell him? Why are _you_ deciding what's in my best interest? We are not friends. We are not colleagues. I don't need _you_ worrying about me."

Will was resolute. Forgiveness was not something he offered up, not after the betrayal he had suffered. Chilton could see it in the set of his facial expression. Will would not let anything like this happen again. This was the end of the discussion, and the end of any potential which might have developed from inside a curious and unusual situation. There was no trust. There was no friendship.

"You're right," Chilton eventually conceded. "I'm sorry."

They held eye contact for a moment, before Will's gaze drifted and away. He was still angry, seething even, though some doubt had shadowed his intense reaction to Lecter's revelation. Chilton hoped Will knew he hadn't meant any harm, even if his conversation with Lecter had been selfishly motivated. He had never meant to upset Will like this. He felt a surge of guilt so strong that it was almost pure relief when Will uttered a curt "Goodbye, Dr. Chilton," and left him there, alone in his doorway.

Though his mind urged him to close the door, to leave, to look away, Chilton's feet were rooted to the cool tile floor. He watched as Will got into his car, turned round in the wide driveway, and left the property once again. There Chilton stood in the aftermath of his own design, awash with regret. Even still, he couldn't understand the depth of his compunction, nor why it burned as it did. Will was right, after all; they barely knew one another. But, he supposed, to a pair of men who had so few people to call friends, this felt unsettlingly like a loss.

After a moment, the bitter cold the only thing prompting his action, Chilton stepped back and closed the door, flipping the deadbolt, to return with resignation to the unruly pile of papers spilled on the living room floor.

\---

Will drove back toward Wolf Trap, at a loss as to what to feel. His self-righteous anger had waned over the course of his one-sided argument with Chilton, as he had come to realize that the doctor hadn't told Hannibal Lecter about what specifically had transpired between them. What was more unpleasant still, there was a nagging feeling of guilt that accompanied that realization. He had been quick to assume the worst, and not without reason – Chilton wasn't known for his tact, nor his bedside manner – but Will hadn't been prepared for the contrite man who had met him at the door. He hadn't been prepared for the sincerity in his apology. He had been ready to argue, to rage, to finally get this foolishness into the open and stomp it out like the embers of a dying fire. It would have at least been cathartic to really _fight_ with Chilton, to have made an accusation and have been met with his arrogance and stubbornness. It would have been simpler. What Will was left with, instead, was a simmering feeling of emptiness in the aftermath of a one-man drama. Emptiness as he drove in silence, his remorse his only travelling companion; emptiness as he arrived home to the warm lights that glowed in the vacant windows of his house. Emptiness as he returned to the kitchen, looking despairingly at the half-gutted fish laid out on the counter like a poor man's sacrifice to the gods of mercy.

Exhausted, he fed his dogs, rolled up his sleeves, and began to clean up his mess.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham's day is derailed by a visit from Alana Bloom that stirs up uncomfortable reminders. After his neurologist appointment, Will, hopeless, turns to Frederick Chilton for comfort.

"You love him."

A statement, not a question. Abigail Hobbs smiled demurely.

Will shook his head, furrowing his brow. "No."

Abigail watched him from across Hannibal Lecter's long, richly dressed table, piled beautifully with an array of fine foods and ornamentation. The flowers that decorated the table were the same as the ones she wore in her hair, shades of deep blue and violet, wreathing her head in a halo of blossoms. She looked elegant, queenly, her arms laid out before her in an open gesture, a living tribute to the subjects of the old Italian masters.

"Then you care for him."

"I care for you," Will gently corrected.

"You care for me as my father."

The table seemed to lengthen between the two of them, Abigail's form receding into the blue-black shadows of the dining room. The porcelain white of her arm, garish against the darkness, reached out toward Will.

"Yes," he responded, soft, reaching out a hand as though to meet Abigail's in the middle. His fingers brushed the top of the elaborate floral arrangement before him, and he glanced downward to see the petals beneath his fingers crumble and turn to dust. The table, which had been breathtaking in its splendor, now only showed death: wilted flowers and mouldy stems; putrefying flesh and the fruits of a rotting harvest; a blackened tablecloth, stained by the decaying matter seeping slowly into its fibres. Will frowned, confusion creasing his forehead.

"And you care for him."

Will looked up to find himself face-to-face with Abigail, who had changed as the table had changed, her skin like charred leather, with deep, vacant hollows where her eyes had been. She smiled once again, her dead lips cracking over blackened teeth. And then, swelling up out of the dark of the dining room, there was the river.

"I'm afraid of him," Will murmured, casting a line into the water, careful not to bump Abigail, who stood beside him, radiant and alive in the sunlight over Difficult Run. "Afraid of this."

"You don't need to be afraid," she responded, her tone comforting, gentle. "You can love him as easily as you have loved me."

Will turned his head to face Abigail, looking with admiration at the young woman all dressed in fishing gear, who looked back at him with the unquestioning adoration of a child. He returned her smile, though his expression swiftly changed as blood began to seep from her throat, staining her crisp collar. He sucked in a breath.

"Abigail."

"It's okay," she reassured him, standing in the kitchen of her parents' home, fringed with a violent spattering of blood on aged cabinetry. "It won't kill me. That was never the intention."

Will rushed to her, holding a hand over her throat, blood oozing from between his fingers. He trembled violently. Behind Abigail lay the dying body of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, bleeding out, and wearing Will Graham's face.

"You need to find them," Abigail calmly said, her skin taking on a sickly pallor, her heavy eyelids drooping. "Hunt them. Kill them, so that you don't have to kill him."

"Kill who?" Will asked desperately, looking around the room in a panic. His eyes fell to the floor, watching his own dying self. _See._

"Dad?"

Shaking, gasping horrified breaths, Will looked up. His hands, blood stained, barely stemming the arterial flow, encircled Frederick Chilton's neck.

The sound of the river roared in Will's ears, and along with it came Abigail's voice.

"You caught him."

\---

With a sharp gasp, Will was jerked back into consciousness. Disoriented, breath ragged, he looked around and tried to place himself. He had been sleepwalking again, outside, no doubt agitated and disturbed by the dream which still lingered in the forefront of his mind, taunting him with its lucidity. He checked his hands for blood, relieved to find none.

It was snowing again, gently, and the cold had permeated Will's skin as though it were vellum. He knew it was morning, or close to it, by the eerie glow on the horizon, throwing the trees surrounding him into imposing silhouette. He knew by their shape, by the curve of the clearing, that he was close to home. He shook violently, his sweat icy in the open air.

"Fuck."

Will turned on the spot, attempting to get his bearings, folding his arms across his chest to conserve body heat. He saw the path he had taken in the shallow footprints through the freshly fallen snow. He followed them until he could recognize his surroundings in the slowly retreating darkness.

The dogs awaited Will when he returned home, most having ventured out into the yard through the wide open door, driven by curiosity. They greeted him happily, and Will imagined, with some relief.

"Sorry, guys," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, patting the heads of the dogs who eagerly encircled his legs. "Mm. C'mon."

Still shaking with cold and adrenaline, Will headed into the house, trailed by his brood. Before anything else, he fed the dogs an early breakfast. As they tucked in, he put on an extra-strong pot of coffee, and ventured into the shower to warm himself.

No amount of stubborn denial could keep Will's mind clear as he slowly shook off the cold, scrubbing dirt and embedded pebbles and twigs off the soles of his feet. The dream had disturbed him deeply, reminding him of uncomfortable memories of Abigail, and the guilt he felt about his recent negligence toward her. Alongside those worries, the dream had woven in bizarre questions about other things he'd rather leave unexamined. His successive tactics of avoidance and then straight aggression were clearly failing him, and like daylight through worn roof slats, his disquieting thoughts broke through the cracks in his mind.

He had had trouble falling asleep the night before – or rather, hours earlier – kept awake by rumination on the subject of Frederick Chilton. Will had expected a fight when he had arrived at Chilton's door for the second time, had expected to catch Chilton in a lie and then to subsequently verbally eviscerate him for being a manipulative, back-stabbing shit. The honesty in Chilton's contrition had thrown Will off-track. He hadn't even given Chilton the slightest benefit of the doubt before he'd barged onto his property and hurled accusations, and yet, standing in the wake of his petulant meltdown, he had seen the truth in Chilton's words. The man hadn't told Lecter anything, save for his concerns about Will, and even if his intentions hadn't been as innocent as he'd let on, the betrayal was nothing like what Will had feared.

He felt a sinking in his stomach as he realized he recognized something else in Chilton's words and actions the night before: he recognized the fear he himself had felt at the idea that someone else might have learned of their kiss. He could see it now, clearly, the defensive posturing, the self-protective language. The major difference, of course, was that Chilton had seemed as concerned about allaying Will's discomfort as he had been about protecting his own interests. He felt himself deflate as he made this realization, a fresh wave of remorse washing over him.

The pervasive thoughts bothered Will greatly, burrowing deeper into his mind like a cancer, keeping him preoccupied and operating at an uncomfortable level of anxiety all through his morning classes. Colleagues asked him how he was doing, in the polite but genuinely uncaring way people do, and with each "Doing fine, thanks," Will lied, certain he wore his concerns on his face, relieved when those who asked gave a friendly smile in response and then went on with their own days. He'd never imagined he could be so grateful for the apathy people so often show each other in brief moments of daily interaction.

A three-hour break between classes provided Will with the time to grade papers he'd left unchecked for far too long. The stack seemed imposing, the task daunting, though he was glad to be faced with it now. His teaching assistant had offered to take this particular job from him, as she had done on other occasions when Will's field work had precluded his classroom duties, but Will had known he would need this exercise eventually. Academic writing had a way of calming Will's overactive mind, its cold language and fact-based arguments helping to ground him, to keep him in the present. He reached out to the familiar assignment now as a drowning man reaching for a life preserver.

Nursing his third coffee of the day, he broke into the pile, selecting a paper at random to assess. He felt hopeful at first as the loquacious style of the author refocused his mental energy; they referenced researched crime scenes with photographic detail, as though they themselves had borne witness to them. His own mind reconstructed the scenes like gruesome tableaux, allowed him to walk through them once again, to empathize and understand. The familiar horror held him in a kind of stasis as he read, even as his thoughts began to falter. The suburban house in which an unknown killer had slain an entire family as they slept, with no readily apparent motive apart from a lust for savagery, slowly changed, becoming more intimately recognizable. Photographs decorating the victims' hallway were replaced with images of Abigail Hobbs. The blood-spattered bedroom unfurled into the too-familiar kitchen of the Hobbs' home. Four victims became two, and a bloodied Will Graham tried desperately once more to save Abigail Hobbs' life.

Taking off his glasses, Will rubbed his eyes.

_It is 12:18 PM. I'm in Quantico, Virginia. My name is Will Graham._

The coffee burned as he downed most of it in a single swallow, pitifully antsy for the caffeine rush. He blinked rapidly before pushing his glasses back on, turning his attention back to his student's paper. Even as he did, he knew it was too late. Will's mind had refocused, had gripped with a ferocious tenacity onto the thoughts he most wanted to abandon. Images described in the paper mingled and melded with the bloodbath at the Hobbs', and those images became distorted with the disquieting memory of his dream. He was holding Abigail's throat again, covered in her blood, paralyzed with the knowledge that he could not stop the bleeding on his own, could do nothing more to try to save her.

He was looking at Chilton again, bloodied hands encircling his throat, the gesture somehow more intemperate than it had been with Abigail. He could feel the difference in the way he held him. He wanted to stop the bleeding; he wanted to stop.

"No," he breathed, squeezing his eyes closed, the disturbing images brightening behind his eyelids. _"No."_

A gentle tapping.

"Will?"

He opened his eyes, still grimacing, turning his head to see Alana Bloom standing in the doorway of the lecture hall. He felt his face flush as he met her eyes.

"Oh – Alana," he acknowledged, clumsily pushing his chair away from his desk, standing in an unnecessarily formal gesture. "I'm just – I'm grading papers." He gestured to the desk, to the opened paper which bore not a single mark of correction.

"I can see that," came Alana's rich voice, tinged with concern. She approached him slowly. "Your TA said I'd find you here. Are you alright?"

Becoming aware of the look of stress on his face, Will put forth a conscious effort to neutralize his expression, nodding, trying a smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Alana surveyed him with evident disbelief, her eyebrows drawn together.

"You look a little upset."

"Just tired," he lied, feeling worse about the half-hearted deception than he had the slew of other times he'd been dishonest with colleagues that day. It felt different with Alana. He knew she could see through it, which didn't help, and he knew from the last conversation they'd had in this room that she pitied him enough as it was. She didn't need to know about the day he'd been having. The _days._

She paused, long enough to let Will know – intentionally or not – that she didn't believe him. She smiled slightly, nodding. "Okay," she allowed, stepping closer, leaning against the edge of his desk.

Will reached to turn over the paper he'd been reading, as though its contents might somehow reveal his unsettling thoughts to Alana. He smiled at her again, pushing his glasses further up his nose. His face still burnt with embarrassment and discomfort.

"So, what – what brings you here this afternoon? Is there anything I can help you with?"

Will frowned at his own words. This was what they had become, wasn't it? Two uncomfortable people, trying hard to make it work, to bring it back to the way it had been, both as eager as the other to find a way, and neither able to keep their head above the waves. Will's stomach sank. He was pushing her away, as much as he tried not to.

Alana watched him with her perceptive eyes, limpid and kind, holding no judgment or resentment. Will felt his affection for her grow.

"I wanted to talk to you about your evening class," she answered. Will couldn't help but sigh, shaking his head at himself.

"Of course, yeah," he breathed, ignoring a heavy feeling of disappointment as he realized that was indeed, and of course, her reason for stopping by. A perfectly good, sensical reason.

"Thank you for stepping in, by the way - again," he recovered, straightening up and folding his arms. "You've really been...you've been wonderful."

_Wonderful?_ Will cursed inwardly.

Alana smiled graciously. "Glad to be able to help. Really."

A silence, not entirely uncomfortable, descended between the two of them. Layers of subtext hung in the space, diffusing their words, inviting curiosity and affection. Will felt his thoughts drifting to their last conversation in this room, to the disappointment he'd felt; he watched the smile on her lips and remembered the way they'd felt against his, ages ago, it seemed; he swallowed hard as his thoughts drifted unbidden to the drunken feelings he'd irresponsibly expressed with Chilton, in the same physical way.

"Um. Well, it's more of the same, really," Will said abruptly, turning away from Alana to rifle through a catalogued but messy pile of papers and folios on his desk. He retrieved a fat, blue binder, flipping through it and setting it down on the desk between the two of them, resting his hand on his lesson plan. "It's all worked out already, and the slideshow is ready to go on my desktop. Supplementary materials are here," he went on, flipping through the binder and pointing out marked pages, "and I've referenced the pages in the text that might be – um, relevant."

"Thank you," Alana said softly, looking away from Will to glance down at his meticulous lesson plan. He planned each one as though he expected that he wouldn't be there to teach it, as though to make the job easier for whoever might need to fill in for him. That wasn't the case, of course, and Alana knew that. It was simply how Will worked. Things made sense when they had been stripped down to their components and laid out neatly for examination. They were less complicated when not left to unpredictability. Another silence fell between the two of them.

"I've been worried about you," Alana finally admitted, reaching timorously to touch the back of Will's hand.

"You don't need to be," Will assured her, his tone bordering on defensive. He felt that, too, a measure of defensiveness, purely reactive and surely coloured by his own disappointment in himself, the man who was too unstable to grow close to. Alana allowed a benign reticence, withdrawing her hand and lowering her head. Her eyes scanned the lesson plan on the desk; Will knew she wasn't taking any of it in. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

"What I mean," he went on, reaching to close the binder, "is that I'm okay. I'm fine."

She didn't smile now, no attempts at assuaging his feelings.

"Are you?"

Will hesitated before responding, an untruthful _yes_ sticking in the back of his throat. Alana's gaze was caring, even if it betrayed her exasperation. He swallowed, looking down at his desk before speaking.

"The reason I asked you to take my class tonight is I have an appointment. A medical appointment," he clarified. "They're going to do a cranial CT scan."

Alana's concern was plain. "Do they think it's that serious?"

Will shook his head, shrugging slightly. "I don't know. _I_ do."

"Do you?"

He laughed softly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Alana paused, nodding slightly, straightening up and smoothing her hands over her dress. She picked up the binder, hugging it to her body.

"I'm glad you're going to see someone."

Will understood she meant no offense, that what she said she meant absolutely. Her words, however, still felt like a sentencing. They were a confirmation of all the reasons they would never work, despite the feelings they had for one another. She might as well have said, "It's about time."

Will nodded, sitting back down in his chair. That was it, then.

"Well, I'll be here another few hours, and you can always call me if – if anything is unclear."

"Okay."

She turned to leave, and Will felt a rush of upset.

"Alana?"

She looked back.

"Yes?"

He smiled, still uncomfortable, but genuine.

"Thanks again."

Alana returned his smile.

"Of course."

He watched as she left the lecture hall, and with a heavy sigh, pulled off his glasses and rested his forehead in his hand. He wished he was a better actor; he wished she was worse at reading him. His focus had been shattered by the surprise visit, if not by the disturbing daydream she had interrupted, and he knew now there was no way he could make any progress in his grading.

The smell of Alana's perfume lingered around Will's desk, soft and vaguely sweet, though not saccharine. Earthy, but not musky. He would recognize it if he ever smelled it on another person, surely, and would happily remember being in Alana's company. He allowed himself a moment to just breathe it in, to focus only on the ghost of Alana that still remained in the lecture hall. It was comforting. It grounded and calmed him. It stirred in him, too, memories of when that sweet scent had been so much stronger, when it had enveloped him along with her arms. He remembered how she had filled his living room, touching and affecting every surface just with her presence. He remembered, reluctantly but vividly, the way he had kissed her, and how she had sunken into it, how she had held the back of his neck.

He remembered, then, more clearly than he had until that moment, that his kiss with Chilton had been very much the same: he had initiated it. His partner had leaned into it. He had felt the strength of his attraction to each of them. He had felt the sting of rejection when they had pulled away.

Will let out a groan, frustrated at his mutinous thoughts, and the unwelcome stirring he felt as he relived those memories. He turned over the paper he'd been reading before Alana had come in, but the words had lost all meaning. Stubbornly, he shoved at the images that clung in his head like a song on repeat, though his resistance seemed weaker now that his unwanted thoughts had woven themselves into a new corner of his mind. They had met with his easy, understandable, undeniable attraction to Alana Bloom, and had begun to nest there.

It made no sense. Alana did. She made absolute sense. She was intelligent and beautiful, caring but hard-headed. Thoughtful. Driven. Sexy. He admired her. He craved her admiration in return. He had imagined the way their bodies would feel together, skin to skin, and knew that it was something he wanted. He wanted it so badly that it had pushed her away.

Frederick Chilton – _Frederick Chilton!_ – made no sense. The way he stayed in Will's mind made no sense. The very fact that Will had felt inclined to kiss the man – _that_ made no sense. Or, so Will desperately wanted to believe.

But this was not so different from the experiences he'd had as a younger man, with other men. The circumstances weren't identical, though they were close enough. He had been drunk, and he had briefly fallen in love with the idea of another man. He had left his anxieties with his sobriety and explored a latent part of himself that was so often stifled beneath fear, and an antequated notion of propriety. But the most startling realization, perhaps, was that this was not so different from the experiences he'd had with _women,_ either. They didn't leave him with the same fear, and didn't necessitate the same degree of inebriation, but, as he sat in the dim lecture hall, feeling the physical excitement that had risen from just the thoughts running through his head, he struggled to find sure footing amidst his desires.

Like a reflex, he began to shut down those thoughts. Alana's perfume still hung in the air, and so a frustrated Will Graham pushed himself away from his desk, grabbed a handful of student papers, and headed briskly out of the room. He would grade somewhere else. Anywhere else. Surrounded by strangers, and colleagues who didn't _really_ care what was going on inside his head.

\---

Will sat in the waiting area nearest the diagnostic imaging centre, his impatience coursing beneath his skin, enlivening his body with an unsettling crawling sensation. The scan itself had been relatively brief, and Will had since then redressed, made his way through the labyrinthine hospital to the waiting area, which seemed needlessly far from where he needed to be, and had been sitting there with the outward appearance of patience for the better part of an hour. A stretch of time so small would normally have passed much faster, but in his anxiety, and wading through his troublesome thoughts, Will felt he'd been waiting far too long. His hopefulness bordered on desperation, an unquenchable need for answers. He felt confident that the scan would show _something_ wasn't right, even if his deepest fears of mental illness continued to plague him. There was surely some physical reason for this, some treatable problem, something on which to squarely pin the blame and from which to move forward.

Though he was immensely grateful to Dr. Lecter for arranging the appointment so quickly, Will had still felt a great deal of uneasiness when he met Dr. Sutcliffe. The doctor was courteous and friendly, but as with so many others, he looked at Will with too much interest, a fox eyeing a rabbit with a ravenous hunger. He was able to hide it somewhat more than Chilton had been able to on their first meeting, though Will felt the same familiar threat he felt whenever he met professionals who had _heard of_ him. He felt, as he had changed into the stiff hospital gown and laid on the mechanized exam table, the irrational fear that he may never be allowed back out. He hoped, sitting in the empty waiting room, that whatever problem showed up on the CT scan made him less an interesting subject, and more simply a patient in need of treatment.

"Mr. Graham."

Will looked up to see Dr. Sutcliffe beckoning him with a courteous but cold smile. He rose, trying to ignore the shakiness in his knees as he followed the doctor. They moved through the barren corridors in silence, returning to the area in which Will had some time earlier stripped down and left his clothing folded neatly in a tray, his glasses placed gingerly on top. Where he had redressed after the scan with a sense of detachment from his body. Dr. Sutcliffe sat, leaving the other man standing before him. Will took a deep breath and surrendered himself to the expertise of the neurologist.

"Thanks for your patience," Dr. Sutcliffe began, turning his attention to the monitors on the clinical white desk before him. He pulled up images of Will's brain, and Will looked at them eagerly, hoping to see some obvious indicator of what was wrong. He realized he had no real idea how to identify an image of a sick brain versus an image of a healthy one. His stomach churned as he waited for Dr. Sutcliffe to speak again.

"As you can see," the doctor began, gesturing to the screen before looking down his nose at the chart in his lap, "there's not much for us to go on, from here."

A deafening ringing began in Will's ears. He felt blood rush from his face.

"We didn't find anything abnormal. No vascular malformations, no tumors, no swelling or bleeding, no evidence of stroke. Nothing," he said, his tone so nonchalant that he seemed cruelly indifferent, or else filled with remarkably inappropriate optimism, given the alternatives a clear diagnosis suggested. "There's nothing wrong with you neurologically."

_Neurologically. There's nothing wrong with you. Neurologically._

Will stood in stunned silence, his mind frighteningly devoid of reaction. He had heard the words. He knew what they meant. He could, apparently, see it for himself in the images on the display. He felt his heart racing beneath his still exterior.

"So, what I'm experiencing is psychological?"

"Well, brain scans can't diagnose, um, mental disorders," Sutcliffe went on, somewhat apologetic, though still so stoic that it made Will want to lash out, to shake him, to ask him if he knew just what this diagnosis meant. The doctor went on.

"They can only rule out medical illnesses, like a tumor, which can have similar symptoms."

Will stood in silence, replaying the doctor's words again and again. _There's nothing wrong with you neurologically. Brain scans can't diagnose mental disorders._

"Look, we'll run some more tests. We'll take some more blood samples, but I imagine they'll prove to be just as inconclusive."

Will nodded. "Yes – I'd like further tests. Please."

"You can call my office to set up an appointment. I'll let reception know that they should expect your call."

Trapped in the void between stimulus and response, Will again nodded, turning to leave with a habitual "thank you." He exited the room and made his way back through the maze that led to the parking lot, his pulse loud in his ears.

In his car, the reality of the situation ploughed into him like a wrecking ball. His chest felt compressed, his hands were numb. He began to shake, drawing in sharp, uneven breaths, his throat thickening and tightening. His skin felt on fire. His heart pounded in an uneven, frightening lope. He felt himself slipping, losing his grip on the present, consumed by panic and despair.

_It is 9:13 PM. I'm in...I'm in –_

He choked a sharp, hopeless cry, his eyes brimming and then spilling hot tears. He pulled off his glasses, dropping them on the passenger's seat, and began to sob.

This was it. He knew it, now. He would return for more tests, and he would feel hopeful, even knowing that the tests would come back normal. Dr. Sutcliffe was confident in his diagnosis, but he knew Will would need more. He knew he would need it so desperately that it didn't matter how unlikely it was that further tests would show anything different. It was him, just him. It had been Will's mind all along, and finally, he was losing it.

This meant the end, then. The end of his career. The end of his relationships. Who knew what kind of degenerative problem this could be? Was he edging into a form of schizophrenia? Would he be simply lumped in with the diverse, marginalized, ignored group simply labeled as "crazy"? How long would Jack Crawford allow him to continue his work, knowing that his worsening episodes were not signs of exhaustion or physiological illness, but simply indicators of a mind going off the rails? How long did he have before the periods of lucidity between his episodes became so short that they themselves became brief episodes, out of the ordinary, to be noted and examined?

He cried until he had exhausted his well of panic, and when he stopped, numb even as his troubling thoughts still lurked in his head, he knew he couldn't go home. He couldn't be there, alone with only his disturbed and damaged mind. But, with a familiar hollow feeling, he realized there were not many other places to go. Doors had never been open to him as they were for others, for people who met all the requirements of what it meant to be good company. For friends.

He could go to a bar, of course, and drink until his thoughts didn't matter anymore. Even as he considered that option, Hannibal Lecter's words rang in his memory. _For the time being, it may be a good idea to restrict your drinking._

He could go to see Lecter, he thought, though it had been Lecter who had challenged the idea that he might be suffering from a physiological condition in the first place. The doctor had been right – the problem was, quite literally, all in Will's mind. He didn't know if he could bear to see the look of sincere pity on the doctor's face. He couldn't stand to hear his comforting words. They would only serve to bring his condition more vividly to life.

Distraught and desperate, Will started the car. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and replaced his glasses, blinking away the bleariness that his tears had left behind. He drove out of the parking garage and onto the dark street, heading not toward his home, but toward the only person he knew could understand his raw, consuming desolation.

\---

For the third time, Chilton looked out his front windows to see Will Graham's Volvo in his driveway. Where previously the sight had triggered confusion and curiosity, he now felt a self-righteous surge of annoyance, tinged with well-managed but very real anger.

When he had last spoken with Will, he had been desperate to allay the man's fears. He had understood Will's reaction to learning about Chilton and Lecter's conversation, as he would have felt the same fear and discomfort if their roles had been reversed. He had been in those shoes before, in a manner of speaking, and he knew how terrifying it could be. But as more time passed, and as his panic caused by an aggressive and furious Will Graham had calmed, he had felt a resentment begin to build. He hadn't _really_ done anything wrong, and hadn't _he_ been the one to put up the drunken fool when he'd shown up at his house, too far gone to get himself home? And it hadn't been _he_ who had put the moves on, it had been Will. Chilton hadn't asked for this, and he felt angry that he'd been made to feel somehow responsible for Will's overreaction and for whatever other neuroses their interaction might have awoken in him.

Will rang the bell, just once. _No more pounding like an angry gorilla – guess somebody's feeling ashamed of himself._

Chilton crossed the house toward the foyer, though he took his time, in absolutely no hurry to do any more mollycoddling. He straightened his collar and took a deep breath, preparing all the unashamedly snarky things he'd like to say to an apologetic Will. He opened the door, one such comment sitting on the tip of his tongue, and saw a red-eyed, distressed man before him, hiding none of his upset. Chilton frowned.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in, please?"

Chilton wanted to cock an eyebrow, to deliver any one of the lines he'd prepared in his anger, to take back control of the situation and demand the respect of someone who had been so rude to him. Standing face to face with Will, a distraught mess, he could only step aside and gesture for Will to enter.

"Are you alright?" Chilton asked, trying hard to infuse his voice with a blasé coolness. He expected the same response that most people deliver when posed with that question, an affirmative, whether convincing or not. He felt an unbidden rush of concern when Will shook his head.

"No," he said quietly, pacing a bit in the foyer, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up, and under the carefully designed lighting inside the house, Chilton could see that he had been crying.

"What happened?" he asked, his concern winning out over his stubborn anger. He took a step toward Will, who grimaced, before raising his eyebrows with a strained smile.

"I'm sorry," Will said, his jaw tensing as he broke eye contact with Chilton. "For how I acted."

"Have you been sleepwalking?"

"No. Not...not today."

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Why are you here?"

Will looked at Chilton, his expression tense, the creases of his brow illustrating how hard he fought to hold it together. He spoke softly, strained.

"I had nowhere else to go."

Chilton's expression fell, along with his stomach. He took in the sight of the other man, really seeing him as he was: lonely, alone, afraid. In need. Of what, Chilton had no idea. He hadn't worked up the courage, or let go of enough of his stubbornness, to really press for an answer. He clenched his jaw as he watched Will, struggling to find the right thing – or any thing – to say.

"Well," he began, "I don't suppose – "

His words, barely thought out anyway, caught in his throat as Will stepped toward him. Chilton's heart began to pound. The younger man reached out a tentative, shaking hand, cupping round the back of Chilton's neck, and then, in the cool white foyer, they were kissing.

It started slowly, timidly, the stiffness of Will's body evident in the few places it touched Chilton's. The hand at the back of Chilton's neck felt rigid as they kissed. But slowly, Will began to relax into it, opening his mouth against Chilton's. His fingers crept up, trailing hesitantly into the short cropped hair at the top of the other man's neck. The sensation sent a cool shiver through him.

With a heavy exhale against Chilton's lips, Will pushed deeper, his tongue finding the warmth of Chilton's. He let out a sharp breath as Chilton's hand reached round to his back, still easing into this new ground, but he went along with it, closing the space between their bodies. Chilton felt the strain of his growing erection against his trousers, breathing in sharply at the feel of Will pressing against him. Will hesitated at the sound, pulling back just slightly, his lips parting from Chilton's with a soft smack.

"It's okay," Chilton said softly. He took in Will's face, some of its earlier strain having smoothed out, replaced by an uncertain but willing expression of desire. He looked at Will's lips, full and soft, reddened by their kiss, and leaned into kiss them again, gently.

"C'mon," Chilton murmured, reaching to take Will's hand from his neck. He led him into the living room, still in half-disbelief that this was happening. He felt sure he was awake, though this could easily have been a fevered dream. He sat on his crisp white sofa, encouraged and relieved when Will removed his coat and sat beside him. And then, easier, with a little less fear, Will kissed Chilton again.

He leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes, smiling slightly as he felt Will's hand come to rest chastely on his knee. In a gesture of encouragement, Chilton ran a hand up Will's arm, over his shoulder, and let his fingers curl gently into Will's hair.

It was a good kiss – really _fucking_ good – and Chilton was grateful that whatever had brought Will to his door this time, it wasn't a blackout, and it wasn't liquor. Will was a little timid, that much was clear, but he was here by choice, sober, and _fuck_ , he was a good kisser. Chilton groaned softly against Will's mouth, arching slightly toward him. He tightened his fingers around Will's curls, eliciting a low sound of enjoyment from him.

Chilton felt a jolt of excitement as Will's hand moved from his knee to his thigh, nodding just slightly, gently biting the younger man's lower lip. Will drew in a breath at the sensation, pausing, breaking their kiss before moving his uncertain hand to the bulge in Chilton's trousers. He palmed him gently, breathing in shallow, rapid breaths. Chilton let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes, feeling the prickle of goosebumps.

Will shifted his position, and Chilton felt him unbuckling his belt. He raised his head slightly to see an apprehensive Will, hesitating, hands trembling at the button of Chilton's trousers.

"Hey," Chilton said softly, recognizing Will's uncertainty. The gravity of the situation came to him in a rush, and he understood: of course Will was hesitant. His reaction to their first kiss, aggressive and hostile and terrified, told Chilton that this was not familiar ground for Will. It was clear enough that he wanted this – wanted _something_ – but he was at a loss.

"I haven't – " Will began. "I've – I've never..."

"I know," Chilton murmured, his tone soothing. "It's okay."

He leaned up, kissing Will's neck, tasting the salt of his skin as he buckled his belt back up. Slowly, he shifted, guiding Will to sit with his back against the couch. He sat beside him, leaned toward him, and began to kiss him again. His hand found the front of Will's trousers and he picked up where Will had left off, palming the other man, feeling how quickly he hardened.

As Chilton rubbed Will's growing erection, Will deepened their kiss, letting out a low groan against Chilton's mouth. He undid Will's trousers, tugging them slightly down, and reached into his shorts to free his cock. Without hesitation, he began to pump, letting his lips trail from Will's mouth to his jaw, feeling the coarseness of stubble against his skin. He worked down Will's neck as he jerked him off, tonguing his skin, reveling in each sound of enjoyment Will made. He thought about how much he wanted to trail his tongue down to Will's prick, to suck him off, to make him come with just his mouth, but he also knew Will might not be ready for that, not yet. This was the first time he'd let a man get him off, and that was surely enough to process on its own.

He did like it, though, that much was obvious as Will let his head roll back, closed his eyes, breathed in sharp inhales and shuddering exhales. Chilton savoured every reaction, meeting Will's lips again, kissing him deep and needy as he pumped his cock harder, faster, urging him to come. Chilton could feel it when he did, in the shudder of his body, the hard and stuttered breaths. He waited until Will was done before he stopped, kissing him gently, on the lips, on the side of his face. He could taste the salt of his dried tears.

Will remained silent save for his slowly steadying breaths, laying his head back, washed over with the relief of his orgasm. After a moment, Chilton reached into his pocket to retrieve his handkerchief, and cleaned Will up. The silence wasn't unbearable, though it hung heavily between them, and it made Chilton wonder: _what now?_

This was a new situation for the both of them – they had never spent a long time in one another's company, and now they found themselves in entirely new circumstances. Chilton, self-conscious in the quiet, leaned back into Will and gently kissed his neck, breathing in the smell of him, his aftershave mingled with his own warm scent. To his relief, Will turned in toward him, discreetly adjusting himself and doing up his trousers before resting against Chilton's shoulder. The doctor raised a hand, running it through Will's hair, hoping – ridiculously, considering what he'd just done for Will – that the gesture didn't seem too intimate for Will's comfort.

"I'm sorry," Will said again, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Shh," Chilton breathed. "It's okay."

"I...I didn't know where else to go."

Chilton knew better than to pry; the weight of Will's upset had crept back in so quickly, and now he sat like a boy, his head on Chilton's shoulder, undoubtedly not entirely sure why. It didn't matter, Chilton supposed. Something had happened to set the younger man off, and he had come to Chilton's home in search of some kind of comfort. He may not have set out with the idea that it would have played out as it did, but that was not the important part.

Chilton's anger with Will had swiftly dissipated, replaced with curiosity and affection. He hadn't had to apologize for his behaviour – Chilton had known enough scared men to know that these sorts of situations didn't often end happily, and most often ended with a distinct _lack_ of apology – but Will had chosen to drive to Chilton's home to try to make amends. Whatever the motivation, Chilton was grateful for it.

"It's okay," Chilton repeated, stroking Will's hair, still not entirely certain he wasn't dreaming. "It's okay."


End file.
